Winding Back The Clock
by EFAW
Summary: The first time they meet, Wes is fifteen. Travis is not. Time travel AU. Wesvis. Oneshot.


**Summary: **The first time they meet, Wes is fifteen. Travis is travel AU. Oneshot.

**Warnings: **Wesvis. Time travel. Timey-wimeyness. Rebellious teen antics. Underage drinking. A lot of alcohol. Fighting.

**Disclaimer: **I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

**Yet another prompt from **mizufallsfromkumo,** who always seems to come up with the most fantastic ideas.**

**As always, ten thousand thanks to **theempathymachine** for the beta, even though it was during the holiday season. You are amazing and lovely, my dear.**

**OOOO**

**Winding Back The Clock**

"_What you need to know about the past is that no matter what has happened, it has all worked together to bring you to this very moment. And this is the moment you can choose to make everything new. Right now."_

—_Unknown_

**XXXX**

Wes woke.

He woke to fluorescent white lights, cutting through the haze of unconsciousness like a scalpel, digging into his brain with razor edges. To the smell of disinfectant and the low, steady beep of a heart monitor, proclaiming him alive even though he felt like he shouldn't be.

He woke to a woman in a white coat leaning over him, asking him questions like _What's your name? _and _Do you remember what happened?_ To words like _concussion_ and _whiplash_ and _stay here for observation_.

He woke to his mother, sitting stiffly in the chair beside his bed, face stern and mouth a thin, grim line. She only spoke to the doctor—she never spoke to him, but her silence was something Wes knew well, tinged with resignation and a familiar disappointment.

He woke to an empty space at his other side, where his father would be, but Wes had learned long ago to stop expecting his father to be there. He didn't let himself be upset about it. He'd stopped letting himself be upset about his father's absence a long time ago. Instead, he closed his eyes against the headache and asked the nurse about painkillers, and when she told him he couldn't because of the concussion, he told himself not to be upset about that either.

He woke in the hospital, with no idea why he was there, to two cops watching him with disapproving eyes.

Wes woke, and then he closed his eyes and wished for the blissful silence of unconsciousness once more.

**XXXX**

"We don't have to do this right now," said the lady cop with the nice smile. "You have a concussion. We can wait a few days for it to abate."

Wes gritted his teeth against the minor headache and scowled. "It's fine."

The two detectives shared a look. Then they glanced over at Wes's mother, sitting in the corner doing the absolute bare minimum to show she was a caring parent. She was reading a magazine, for chrissake, not even seeming to care that two cops were about to interview her son.

Well, that was probably because his dad would do his best to make it all go away. So long as it didn't affect her reputation or the name of the family, his mother never did care what he was up to.

It pissed Wes off, and only made his headache worse. "Can we get this over with already?"

"Alright." The lady cop pulled out her notebook. "Now, Mr. Mitchell—"

"Wes," he snapped. 'Mr. Mitchell' was his father. "Call me Wes."

"Wes," she corrected. "Do you know why you're here?"

"The doctors mentioned something about a car accident."

"Right. And do you know your involvement in the accident?"

"My what?"

The other cop leaned forward, pudgy fingers holding out some photos of a car. A familiar car, one he'd ridden in dozens of times. It was off the road, a stop sign wrapped around the hood. Something unpleasant churned in Wes's belly.

"Jesus Christ, what happened?"

"That's what we're trying to find out, son," the chunky cop said. Wes shot him a dark glare and stubbornly sat back. He wasn't going to sit here and be patronized by a guy who looked like he hadn't seen the other side of a desk in years.

The lady cop, who had worked with stubborn surly teens before or just had kids of her own, leaned forward, drawing his attention away from the other cop. "What can you tell us about the crash?"

"Nothing." He picked at his cuticles and feigned boredom with the whole thing, even though his stomach was churning. Jesus, he'd been in that car when it crashed? What about the others, were they alright? Why the hell wouldn't anyone _tell_ him anything? "I don't remember."

That last part was true. He'd had no idea why he was in the hospital, and the only reason he'd known he'd been in an accident in the first place was because a nice nurse had filled him in. The doctors all spoke to his mother, and god forbid his mother share anything with him.

"Alright," the lady cop said gently, making a note in her little pad. "That's alright. How about what you do remember? What events preceded the crash?"

Wes thought back.

**XXXX**

There'd been a fight with his father. He'd skipped class again, and the school called his parents. The fight itself was nothing unusual, the typical drivel; why was Wes such a failure, why was he smearing the Mitchell name, he was going to get himself thrown out of school at this rate.

Wes didn't care. He hadn't cared for years and he made sure his parents knew it. The resulting screaming match had ended with Wes storming out the front door and his father telling him not to come back until he 'cleaned up his attitude, young man!'

So Wes had gone to his friend Dillon's house. Dillon was what most kids referred to as a 'bad boy', and he, along with his best friends Robbie and Greg, had a certain _reputation_. It was partly what had drawn Wes to them in the first place, that reputation, because he knew it would cause his parents to have aneurysms.

(That and the fact that no one else wanted to befriend the smart-alec who thought he knew better than everyone and always had a sharp comeback. Trying to reign it in left him stiff and awkward, and that didn't work out so well in his favor either. After a while, he just stopped trying.

But Dillon and the guys, they let him hang out with them, and that was better than being alone all the time.)

So Wes went to Dillon's house, because Dillon's parents worked long hours and there was always a well-stocked fridge.

Wes ended up spending two days at Dillon's house, sleeping on the couch in his friend's basement and refusing to go home. He went to school, but he skipped most of his classes and smoked behind the gym with his friends. He hated smoking, but it was what the guys did, and also, it made his parents' noses crinkle in disgust, and Wes was willing to do anything to piss off his parents.

By the third day, he was ready to do something else, anything else. Which was when Robbie came over with a bottle of his dad's scotch.

It wasn't like Wes had never dabbled in alcohol before. He hadn't liked the sensations after the alcohol faded and sobriety reigned, but during…it was nice. Letting everything go fuzzy and incoherent, all the stress about school and his parents. It wasn't his favorite thing in the world, but it wasn't the worst either.

So when Robbie started pouring glasses, Wes took his and swigged it down without hesitating. It burned, a roiling, flickering heat in his chest, like fire and anger and pain all condensed in one place, and it made him feel like he could rip it all out and throw it away and be _free_.

Definitely, most definitely a nice feeling. Wes took another drink.

Halfway through the bottle, words slurring on his tongue, Robbie said, "Hey guys, I grabbed the keys to my mom's car." He held them up, jingling them.

Robbie was the only one who could drive, and even half-drunk Wes knew letting him drive drunk was a bad idea.

But the scotch made him brave and careless, so they all staggered outside to Robbie's car and piled in. Wes was the only one who fastened the seatbelt, and it took him four tries with clumsy fingers and dancing vision to get it secure.

That was the last thing he remembered.

**XXXX**

Wes didn't tell the cops any of that. It wasn't any of their business, all the details that happened leading up to the crash. Mostly, it seemed, they wanted to know who was driving, because Robbie and Dillon, the two in the front, had stumbled out of the crash, and the cops weren't quite sure who was responsible.

Wes was no snitch. He refused to talk. After half an hour of fruitless interrogation, they left, promising they'd come back later.

Once they were gone, his mother stood up, clutching her purse to her chest and staring disapprovingly down at him. "Your father is very disappointed in you," she said primly. "I don't know why you keep doing these things."

"Maybe if you thought about it, you'd figure it out," he snapped back, staring sullenly out the window. For the record, he didn't give a damn if his father was disappointed or not. It wasn't like it made a bit of difference. His father would use his skills and his connections to make this whole problem disappear so it couldn't tarnish the Mitchell family, and then he would go back to ignoring Wes like usual until the next time Wes screwed up.

His mother sniffed, shaking her head sadly. "I just don't know what happened to you, Wesley," she murmured. "You were such a good boy."

Yeah. He was a good boy, right up until the day he realized that nothing he ever did would be good enough for his parents. Then he stopped caring, because what was the point?

His parents had never figured that out, and he wasn't about to enlighten them on it now. They wanted to solve the puzzle of their child, maybe they could use their brains and pay attention for a change. He scowled and continued to stare out the window, pretending she wasn't there.

After a long minute, she sighed and left, closing the door quietly behind her. It hurt worse than if she'd slammed it.

Wes gritted his teeth and told himself he didn't care.

**XXXX**

There was a soft _'whump'_ of displaced air. It wouldn't normally have been enough to wake him, but he'd become so attuned to doctors and nurses coming in to check on him that he woke in an instant.

For a second, he just laid there, wondering if he'd imagined it. He was about to go back to sleep when he heard a quiet _thump_ and muttered cursing. Frowning, Wes rolled over.

Even in the middle of the night, the lights were never completely off, so the nurses who came in could see what they were doing, so Wes had plenty of light to see the intruder. A dark-skinned man about twice his age, if not more, with an ill-fitting white coat on over his clothes. Only Wes had met all the doctors on this floor during the course of his stay, and this guy wasn't one of them.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

The stranger jumped, whirling to face him. The light glinted off a C-shaped scar on his forehead, still new enough to be shiny and pink. "Um," he said, hastily grabbing the clipboard at the end of Wes's bed. "I'm a doctor."

Wes's hand inched for the call button. "No, you're not."

"Am too."

"Are not. Doctors aren't in the habit of wearing blue jeans, and the doctors here wear ID badges. You aren't." He gave the other man a once-over. "And any doctor would be able to afford better than _those_ boots."

The man chuckled. It wasn't the kind of weary, exasperated sound Wes was used to. If anything, it almost sounded _fond._ "Wow. Even as a kid you were too smart for your own good." He smiled, soft and gentle around the edges. Wes couldn't recall anyone looking at him like that, ever. "And still a smart-ass, too."

Wes ignored that, stretching for the call button. "I'm calling the nurse." He wasn't stupid—some stranger showed up in the middle of the night acting like he knew Wes, that was a red flag.

"Wait! Wait, wait." The other male held up a hand. Despite his better judgement, Wes paused. "You're right. I'm not a doctor. I'm a cop."

Wes narrowed his eyes. "Show me your badge." When the man made to come close, Wes reached for the call button again. "No, no. Stay there."

The man nodded. "Alright. Good instincts." Again, that subtle approval that Wes didn't understand. "Okay. Here's my badge. I'm pulling it out now." Moving slowly, the man reached under the doctor coat and unclipped the badge from his belt. Deftly, he tossed it onto the bed.

Wes didn't catch it, but he blamed the concussion on that. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands. "It looks real," he conceded, running his thumb over the gold shield.

"That's 'cuz it _is_ real," the cop said, tucking his thumbs into his belt loops. He rocked on his heels, staying where he was, not coming any closer. Respecting the boundaries Wes set up. Wes sort of appreciated that, and it bothered him.

Scowling, he tossed the badge back. To his annoyance, the cop caught it. "Fine. You're a cop. What do you want, Officer…?"

"_Detective _Marks," the cop corrected cheerfully.

Wes rolled his eyes. "What do you want, Detective Marks? I already talked to the other cops."

He was rewarded with a blank stare.

Wes inched his hand toward the call button again. "You know. About the accident?"

The confusion on the other man's face slowly dawned into comprehension. "Right. _Right_. The car accident. When you were fifteen. You killed a stop sign."

He wasn't sure what bothered him more, that this detective was talking about the accident like it was in the distant past, or just how overly familiar he was being. He didn't like it.

"Yeah," he gritted out, finger lingering on the button. If Detective Marks noticed, he didn't seem to care. "That accident. I already gave my statement."

Detective Marks waved his hand—Wes's attention was caught by the big ugly wristwatch he wore, too clunky to look any sort of practical. "Yeah, no, I'm not here about that. Well, sort of, but not really."

Wes was suddenly exhausted, and it only partially had to do with the weirdo in his hospital room in the middle of the night. He slumped back into the bed and decided if this guy _really_ wanted to murder him in his sleep, Wes wouldn't fight it too hard. "What do you _want_, Detective?"

The cop grinned, all white teeth and charm, and said, "I want you to drop your friends."

Wes gaped at him. "I'm sorry?"

"Your friends. You know, Rico and George and Dan."

Wes continued to stare. "You mean Robbie, Greg and Dillon?"

"Them too." Detective Marks put his hands on the footrest, leaning forward eagerly. "Those guys aren't gonna do you any favors. You need to get rid of them before you wind up in jail. Or worse."

With a scowl, Wes sat up, glaring at the intruder in his room. "You don't know anything about my friends. Or about me."

"You think?" The detective chuckled sardonically. "I know the joyride wasn't your idea. And I know the accident wasn't your fault. You were lucky this time, but you might not be next time. What if it was another car you hit? What if it was a _person_?"

Slim hands clenched into fists, and Wes glared at the sheets. "Shut up."

"No." Detective Marks stomped in front of the bed. "I won't. It's the only way to get your stupid, stubborn self to _listen._" He took a breath, scowling at Wes. "You think you're the only troubled teen acting out for the attentions of an absent parent? Hate to break it to ya, kid, but you're not that special." Marks pushed away from the bed, crossing his arms imperiously. "And your _friends_? I've seen their kind a thousand times, the ones who gave up a long time ago and never amounted to anything."

"What does it matter?" Wes asked, pushing himself fully upright. "You come in here acting like you know me and my friends. Why should I listen to a word you say?"

Wes could almost see the cop biting back angry words. After a second, Marks said, in a deceptively level voice. "You're right. You don't know me from Adam. But you should be able to recognize good advice when you hear it!"

He continued to pace angrily in the narrow space at the foot of the bed. "Look, Wes, you're brilliant," (and he said this in the impassioned tone of a true believer; Wes didn't quite know how to feel about that,) "you could have the world if you wanted it, and I think you know it. Why do you keep hanging with these no-good slackers? If you don't shape up, you're gonna end up dead in a ditch by twenty-five."

Trying not to be disturbed by the absolutely certainty in the cop's tone, Wes crossed his arms. "What do you care?"

The look Marks shot him was indescribably familiar. "Man, I care more than you'll ever know."

This, at least, was something Wes could respond to normally. He scoffed derisively. "Yeah, right."

"You don't believe me? Why not?"

"Because no one cares!" The truth came out, even though Wes hadn't meant for it to. This, too, he would blame on the concussion.

The expression on Detective Mark's face was what every book would describe as 'heartbreaking'. "Oh, Wes…" Again, that absolute familiarity, like the only thing holding the other man back from hugging him was about a dozen laws.

The cop bit his lip, looking up at the ceiling. "Look," he said, sounding calmer than he had this whole conversation. But it was a forced calm; Wes recognized that easily enough. "Look, kid. You may not have it now, but there are people who would do anything for you. Who would _die_ for you. You just have to get there. And that's not going to happen if you keep going as you have."

The conviction in the older man's voice was almost enough to sway Wes. He _wanted_ to believe.

But he didn't. All the evidence pointed to the contrary. And he was tired of this conversation.

He reached out and pushed the call button.

Marks's eyes followed the motion. "Oh, okay, that's…you don't want to listen anymore, so you…wow, okay. Good to know some things don't change."

He started fiddling with his ugly watch, eyeing the door. "Look, just remember what I said. Go back to school. Drop your useless friends. Uh…don't do drugs." He looked up, flashing that bright, charming grin again. "You're gonna be amazing, Wes. I can't wait to see you shine."

The door opened. A nurse poked her head in, smiling the weary smile of every night-shift worker out there. "What can I do for you, sugar?"

There was a soft _'whump'_ of displaced air, and when Wes turned around, the cop was gone.

**XXXX**

It was, Wes decided later, a dream, brought on by the concussion and too many nights spent in a space he hated. It didn't mean anything. The detective his mind conjured up didn't mean anything.

On the other hand, dreams were products of his own mind, so if his brain was coming up with an annoying cop to try and straighten his life out…well. Maybe it meant something after all.

He made half an effort. He went back to class, gradually pulled his failing grades up to apathetic B-'s. When his friends asked, Wes said the accident scared him straight. Robbie and Dillon laughed; Greg looked thoughtful.

Of course he didn't ditch his friends. They were the only friends he had, and that detective was a hallucinatory stranger who'd shown up in the middle of the night. Credentials or no, Wes didn't know him. He wasn't going to get rid of the only friends he had for the word of some guy.

**XXXX**

Time passed slowly. Wes never really made up with his father, but they were cordial to each other. It was probably for the best; they never got along well in the first place anyway. But Wes's grades were enough to keep his father off his back, and aside from dinner they didn't interact much anyway, so whatever. He really didn't care.

Wes turned sixteen. The year dragged on slowly. He forgot about the man at the hospital. He continued to keep his grades up, but he skipped school again, hanging out with his friends. He'd always been smart, he could pass most of his classes just by reading the books, and it wasn't like they were teaching him anything _new_ in there.

He got in trouble. He smoked. He helped his friends raid their parents' liquor cabinets and drank (but never his own parents', that wouldn't end well in the slightest, Wes would probably get shipped off to boot camp or something).

Wes turned seventeen.

That's when he met the detective again.

**XXXX**

It was Robbie's birthday.

(Later, Wes would realize that most of the ideas that really got him into trouble were Robbie's, but that wasn't a connection he made for years.)

Robbie, the oldest of the group, just turned eighteen. Using his older brother's connections, he'd had a fake ID made for himself. And, because he was that kind of guy, he'd had fake IDs made for all of his friends too.

"I know this place," he said, "where they don't check the IDs all that closely and no one really cares how old you look. It'll be perfect."

It didn't sound perfect, not to Wes, but he didn't argue. He knew they were going to go no matter what he said, and if he argued, they might leave him behind. The last thing he wanted them to do was leave him behind.

So he climbed into the back of Dillon's silver four-wheeler and ignored the flip-flop of unease in his stomach (the one that appeared ever since the accident, whenever he sat in the backseat of a car) and laughed when Robbie raised his fist and shouted, "Let's get this party started!"

The bar in question was exactly the sort of place Wes figured Robbie would know; small, seedy, slightly dingy. Personally, Wes didn't want to go in at all—he'd probably get tetanus just looking at the place. But he wasn't about to be left behind, not now, so he climbed out of the car and followed his friends.

True to his word, the bouncer barely glanced at the IDs before waving them inside, and a part of Wes was disappointed. If they'd been turned away…

Oh well. Too late now.

He followed Dillon and Greg to a table while Robbie went to the bar and presented his new fake ID with a flourish. Wes looked around with a grimace, sitting gingerly in the peeling booth. The inside was just as grungy and dated as the outside, and Wes was afraid to touch the table. It looked like it had residue of god-knew what on it. His palms itched just thinking about it.

Robbie returned with a pitcher of beer and four mugs. Wes took the proffered one, grabbed a few paper napkins, and compulsively wiped the rim of the mug. "Are you sure we should be here?" he asked, looking around again. None of the other patrons seemed that interested in the teenagers, but neither did they look _trustworthy_. For all Wes knew, someone was calling the cops on them now. Could they go to jail for entering a bar underage?

"God, Wes, don't be such a downer," Robbie rolled his eyes. "It's my birthday."

"Yeah, man," Dillion said, ever chill. He tipped the pitcher into Wes's mug, amber liquid frothing down. "Just drink and relax, dude. It's _all_ good."

The unease still rumbled in Wes's stomach, but peer pressure was a powerful thing, so he took a sip of the beer and gave his friends a weak smile.

Robbie leaned over, clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit."

**XXXX**

By the third glass of beer, Wes was feeling pleasantly buzzed and had forgotten most of his reluctance to be here. It still lingered, deep in his belly, but the warmth tingling through his veins convinced him that everything was going to be fine.

"We," Dillon slurred, squinting at the pitcher, "are outta beer."

"What?" Robbie gasped, flailing a hand. They'd all been drinking much more heavily than Wes, and were all, consequently, much more sloshed. "Thasss not right. Isss my _birth_day."

"Wes," Greg ordered, listing in his seat, "go get more beer."

"Why do I gotta go get it?" he mumbled, already setting his mug down.

Robbie grinned. "Isss my _birthday_."

"Cuz yer the only one who can walk inna straight line," Dillon mumbled, slumping onto the table.

Wes doubted his ability to walk in a _completely_ straight line, but he was, in fact, much less drunk than any of his friends, so he obediently picked up the pitcher and staggered his way to the bar.

"One more, my friend," he said, because with the alcohol in his blood he was in a good mood. Just. Yeah. No strings attached. He was a little bit drunk, and with that came a distinct lack of worries and a carelessness that surprised him. He'd never felt like this when he was raiding his friends' parents' liquor cabinets.

Maybe it was just the combination of alcohol and being _out_, not having to worry about anyone's parents walking in on them.

Something like that. He was too buzzed to worry about it.

The bartender gave him a bored, disinterested stare. "ID," he said requested, on rote because he barely glanced at the plastic card before taking the pitcher and filling it.

Wes leaned against the counter as he waited, letting his equilibrium sort itself out. He wasn't _drunk_, not even close (there was last year, New Year's, when Dillon showed up with a bottle of tequila and Wes learned exactly what being _drunk_ was like) but he was definitely affected.

"Hey kid," a gruff voice to his right said. Wes glanced over, found himself being scrutinized by a red-faced, pot-bellied guy in faded blue jeans and a stained wifebeater. "Aren't you a little young to be buying beer?"

And Wes, who had never been known for holding back, scoffed and said, "I'm twenty-one."

"Sure you are, kid," the guy said, rolling his eyes. "And I'm the king of Spain." He took a chug from his beer, shaking his head mournfully. "You're too young to be here, kid. Get out of here before you end up like me."

"Mind your own business, asshole." Wes grabbed the pitcher of beer, stomping away from the bar to the table. Heat flickered under his skin, making him itch with the need to let it out.

"What's with you?" Robbie asked, squinting myopically at him.

Wes glared at the bar, pouring himself a mug. "Nothing. Happy birthday, man."

**XXXX**

None of them could walk straight when they staggered out of the bar, just shy of being thrown out. Robbie and Dillon were rowdy, drunkenly singing as they stumbled down the sidewalk. Greg was quiet, but Greg was always quiet.

And Wes…Wes itched, under his skin, wanting to get in a fight. He liked fighting, liked the way the fires danced inside him and cleared out the detritus. When he was fighting, be it a shouting match with his father or punching someone at school, he didn't have to _think_. The worst was always when he was thinking, thoughts running around and around and around in his mind.

He was drunk, and headstrong, and he was itching to hit something so his brain would quiet down. It was not a good combination.

He just wanted to stop _thinking _for a little while.

Up ahead, Robbie and Dillion staggered along the sidewalk, arms around each other's shoulders in a show of camaraderie—but also because they were using each other to keep themselves upright. Wes followed, Greg trailing in his wake, as they rounded the corner for the third time. Dillon had said that walking in the night air would help sober them up a little, make it easier to drive home without getting pulled over, which Wes thought was a load of bullshit, but he was also going to be getting into the car later so any miniscule amount of sobering they could do was great.

"Best birthday _ever_!" Robbie crowed, swinging his free arm wildly. He stumbled into Dillon, and the two boys laughed wildly. "Only thing we need now is a fight!"

Robbie wasn't like Wes—he didn't fight to release the fires inside of him, and he didn't fight to get hurt. He fought because he _liked_ it, loved the adrenaline and the energy and the rush that came with throwing punches. He had a reputation, and people stayed away.

Wes didn't care either way. Robbie was his friend, and if he got dragged into the fights, all the better. Wes could vent.

Dillon clapped Robbie on the shoulder. "Y'know, yeah, bet we could find someone to fight," he announced, and Wes perked up.

"Guys, I don't think this is a good idea," Greg said behind Wes, but no one paid him any mind.

"We can probably find someone in the park," he offered.

The two boys in the lead turned in a wobbly circle to stare at him. "Wes," Robbie declared, his face lighting up. "You are a _genius!_" He lurched back around, pointing majestically in front of him. "To the park!"

"This is going to go badly," Greg mumbled, hurrying to catch up. Wes bit down a grin. He was itching for a fight, and things ending badly sounded _wonderful_.

This time of night, the park was exactly the sort of place low-life and bad boys like Robbie and Dillon hung out. It only took a few shouted insults to get someone's attention. And not the good type of attention.

As the fists started flying and people started shouting, Wes couldn't help but grin, letting out all the anger and frustration that had been building all night. This was freedom. This was release from _everything_, when he could just throw himself into the fight and not have to think. There was nothing worse than thinking.

Something clocked him in the side of the head, a fist or a piece of wood or something else, and stars burst behind his eyes. The pain was refreshing, in a way, as awful as it was. Wes blinked, groaning, trying to clear his head before another blow could come his way.

Then he realized the strobing lights in his vision weren't coming from inside his head. They were coming from the police cars at the entrance to the park.

Well then.

He'd wanted this to end badly, but not, perhaps, _this_ badly.

**XXXX**

Wes groaned, head dangling between his knees. At his side, Robbie merely grunted, while Dillon sighed and said, "Shut up, Wes."

"Hey, you're not the one with a bleeding head wound," Wes snapped back, staring at a stain on his jeans. The cops had done a cursory dressing, right before they slapped the cuffs on, but honestly, it felt like it was still bleeding down the side of his face.

Who knew. Maybe it was.

Robbie thunked his head back against the wall. "My parents are gonna kill me," he groaned, and Wes grimaced. Oh god, he hadn't even thought about what the cops were saying to his _parents_.

"You're not the only one," he mumbled, shifting back and likewise resting his head against the wall. His head was aching, but the cops had refused to give him anything to help when he'd asked. _You brought this on yourself,_ one of them had said, _you have to wait for your parents to get here to deal with it._ Which was stupid, like, what if Wes was internally hemorrhaging or something? Then his father would sue the city and that stupid cop would regret it.

"You're lucky," Dillon groused, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Your parents will only kill you. Mine will probably send me to boot camp or something."

Robbie sighed again, a dejected sort of sound. "Man, it's my _birthday_."

"Your stupid birthday got us into this mess," Wes grumbled, because, well, it was true. Robbie wanted to go out _because_ it was his birthday. If they'd just stayed home and drank, like every other weekend, they wouldn't be sitting here in handcuffs right now.

Greg was the only smart one, running when he had a chance. If Wes ever got out of this, he'd start using his brains like that.

Robbie sat up, glaring at him, and Wes tensed, preparing for another scuffle and all too ready for it because _god dammit_, this was the worst trouble they'd ever been in and it was _entirely_ Robbie's fault.

Because either of them could make a move, one of the officers who'd processed them strode up. _I'm Officer Kavanaugh, _he'd introduced himself, _I only want to help you here, why don't you tell me what happened? _and Wes had scoffed and slouched sullenly in his seat until the man sighed and stuck him with the others. Nowhe said, "Hey, break it up, boys," in the sort of tone people snapped to obey. Slowly, they settled, glaring at each other the whole time.

Then the officer leaned over and unlocked Wes's handcuff.

Wes stared at his bare wrist. "What?" was all he could think to say. It seemed, as it had for most of the night, that his wits were failing him.

Kavanaugh stepped back. "Up, kid." Staring in bafflement at his friends, Wes did as requested, only to find his arms almost gently placed behind his back and the cuffs snapped back on. Again, he repeated, "What?"

Without so much as a by-your-leave, Kavanaugh gripped Wes's upper arm and started dragging him down the hall. Wes shot another glance over his shoulder at his friends, but they looked as baffled as he felt.

A man was leaning against the desk, gold badge glinting on his hip. Wes could only see his back, but there was something almost familiar about him that niggled at the back of his brain. He was leaning over, flirting with the woman at the front desk, and he didn't seem to notice as Kavanaugh marched Wes right up to them.

"Detective Kronish," Kavanaugh called. "This the one?"

The detective turned, and Wes's eyes widened at the familiar blue-eyed, dark-skinned man with the C-shaped scar. A man who'd stood in his hospital room almost two years ago and told him to drop his friends.

But that wasn't possible. That had all been a dream. A figment of his imagination, a byproduct of the concussion.

He'd gotten a head wound again tonight. He was hallucinating. That had to be it.

Those blue eyes ran over him, looking bored. "Yeah, that's the one. Stupid brat." With one last smile for the girl at the front desk, he pushed himself up.

Wes bristled at the insult, but Kavanaugh shook him warningly. It made his head jangle, and he snapped his mouth shut as a wave of pain flooded his nerves. Vaguely, he thought he saw something like concern cross the cop's—Kronish? Or, what was it he'd said last time, Marks?—face, but by the time his vision cleared, the detective just looked bored and mildly annoyed.

"I feel for you," Kavanaugh said, handing Wes over. The detective's hand wrapped around Wes's arm, firm, but much gentler than Kavanaugh. Wes just stared at the cop's hand, feeling confused and muddled. "Having to come down here and collect him."

"You know how these Beverly Hill bigwigs are," the detective shrugged, all nonchalance and disdain. "Doesn't want rumors of his brat's disorderly conduct in the papers. Might affect his _reputation_." There was enough venom in the word that Wes didn't think was completely feigned, and he turned to look at the man.

Kavanaugh laughed in agreement. "I know what you mean. Man, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes." He stepped back, waving at the pair. "Well, good luck with that one. He's a spitfire."

"Don't I know it," the detective said, leading Wes towards the front doors. There was something in his voice, something almost soft and amused, and Wes just continued to stare at him as they exited the station.

"Who _are_ you?" he asked as he stumbled down the stairs, feeling off-balance because of the head wound and the cuffs and the remaining alcohol buzzing through his system, but mostly because a figment of his imagination had just, apparently, busted him out of jail.

The man grinned, a flash of white teeth against chocolate skin. "I'm your knight in shining armor, obviously."

"Seriously!" Wes jerked his hands out of the other man's grasp. "Who the hell _are_ you, Detective Marks? Or should I say Detective _Kronish?_"

The cop winced, holding out a placating hand. "Okay, okay, just…stop yelling." Glancing at the building they just left, he asked, "Can we do this somewhere else?"

Wes ground his teeth together, fists clenching behind his back, but he followed the other man's gaze to the police station. After a second, he nodded, ignoring the spike of pain in his skull at the motion.

Something in the cop relaxed a little. "Alright. Come on." He took Wes's arm again, gently, and guided him down the steps. "Let's get you seated, and then we can talk."

**XXXX**

Wes felt much better sitting down. He let out a sigh, closing his eyes for just a second, and the next thing he knew the cop was back, pressing a bottle of water into his hands. Hands which no longer had cuffs on them.

Wes blinked at his wrists. "How'd you do that?"

Plopping down with a soda of his own, the cop smirked. "I have my ways." He twirled the cuffs on one finger before shoving them into his pocket. "Alright," he said, popping the top of his soda. "Hit me."

The teen rolled the bottle in his hands, watching the clear liquid slosh inside. "What's your name?"

"Marks," the other man promptly responded. "Detective Travis Marks."

Okay. It was nice to know the man hadn't lied during their first meeting.

"So who's Detective Kronish?" Wes asked, slowly twisting the top off the water bottle. The liquid went down his throat an easy and sweet relief, and he was a little grateful Marks had gotten it for him.

"Phil Kronish," Marks said grandly, "is an asshole. Or he will be." He frowned thoughtfully. "No, he's probably still an asshole."

The teen stared at the man at his side. "You're not making any sense."

"Am I not?" Marks grinned and took a swig of his soda. "Oops. Sorry."

Somehow, Wes didn't think he was being sincere.

Sighing, Wes closed his eyes, pressed the bottle against the un-wounded side of his head. The chill helped the pounding in his head, a little.

"Here, lemme see." Wes cracked open an eye to see Marks holding a hand out towards his head—but not touching, not until Wes allowed it. The courtesy was different, and it was the only reason Wes dropped the bottle and shifted so the other man had an easier reach.

"You any good at this?" he asked as the detective pulled the sloppy dressing away.

"I know basic first aid," Marks said, frowning at the bloody mess. At a gesture Wes handed over the water bottle. Marks produced a packet of tissues from his pocket and wet a couple, started wiping at the blood. Wes closed his eyes again.

He was still half-convinced he was hallucinating. People just didn't act so kindly, not to him. And if he couldn't close his eyes around a figment of his imagination, he couldn't trust anyone at all.

"Hmm," Marks hummed, dabbing at the wound. Wes hissed and shifted, but didn't pull away. "It doesn't look like it'll need stitches, but you'll probably want to bandage that up a little better when you get home."

And then he snickered.

Wes opened his eyes with a scowl. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing." Marks waved a hand, but his lips twitched. "It's just, I always wondered where that scar came from, but you'd never—no, never mind, it's nothing. Inside joke."

After a second more of glaring suspiciously, Wes leaned back on the bench with a sigh. "Who _are_ you?"

The look he received was soft, and affectionate, and a little bit wistful. "I'm just…someone who cares. That's all."

It seemed like a hell of a lot more than _just_ that, but Wes wasn't going to call him on it. Not right now.

Marks leaned back, watching him. "What happened tonight, Wes?"

The teen snorted, waved a lazy hand. "Got in a fight, or didn't you notice?"

"No, that's—" Wes could almost see him biting back a snappish retort, taking a breath to calm down. "I mean, why'd you'd get in a fight? Why were you out drinking in the first place?"

And the default answer was, "It was Robbie's birthday."

"That's not an answer and you know it."

"Fine. You wanna know why?" Wes laughed sourly, turning to glare at the other man. "I was drinking because I couldn't say no to my friends. Couldn't have them leave me behind. They're the only friends I've got. And the fight…well. I was pissed. I was drunk. I wanted to hurt someone. I wanted to get hurt. Take your pick. It doesn't make a damn bit of difference."

That blue gaze looked sad, so sad—but there was something else there too, puzzle pieces slotting into place, and Wes didn't understand it, didn't understand why this man looked at him like he knew him but was discovering brand new things every moment they talked.

"You didn't drop your friends," Marks said softly. "I told you to, but you didn't. Why not?"

"You ever been alone?" Wes shot back, heat rising. But not at Marks, no, at _himself_, for answering the damn questions. Normally he'd brush them off or say some smart-ass remark that would make the adult turn away in disgust. But now, it was all spilling out. (He blamed the head wound and the booze. A bad combination, that one.) "You ever been in a crowded room all alone?"

Marks's jaw tightened, gaze going inward. "Yeah. Yeah, I have."

There was enough pain in the other man's voice that Wes was inclined to believe him. His initial sharp remark died on his tongue, and he looked down at his water bottle. "Then you know how much it sucks. I was alone, and then the guys, they let me sit at their table, hang out with them, and I wasn't. They're my _friends_."

"Not after tonight," the detective mumbled under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing." Marks shook his head, took a sip from his bottle. "You can do better, Wes. You don't need them."

"You said that last time!" Wes threw his hands up in the air. "You said that last time, but it doesn't help _now_, does it? What was it, I'd have people who'd _die_ for me? But that doesn't do me any good when I've got no one to talk to for days on end." He gripped the neck of the water bottle and had to resist the urge to throw it. "They're my _friends._ I'm not going to give them up on the say-so of some guy who shows up out of nowhere then disappears on a whim."

"It's going to get you in trouble," Marks pointed out. "It's already gotten you in trouble. If I hadn't come along, you'd have a shiny black mark on your record."

"Yeah, about that." Wes narrowed his eyes. "Why did you get me out? You lied and everything."

"I told you, Wes, I care—"

"Yeah, yeah, you _care_ about me. I don't even know who you _are_."

The detective watched him, eyes far away, looking through Wes at something he couldn't see. "You'll find out. But for now, all you need to know is that I would never, _ever_ do anything to hurt you. You can trust me, Wes."

Wes wanted to. He did. But he'd been burned too many times by people he was supposed to be able to trust.

So he just glared at the ground and scoffed, "Right, sure. Whatever."

At his side, the detective sighed, putting a heavy, warm hand on his shoulder. "Let's get you home. You need to get that wound covered up."

**XXXX**

Marks stood at the base of the driveway, watching with his hands in his pockets as Wes made his way to the front door.

He was fumbling his keys out, trying to get them in the lock against the samba in his skull, when he heard, somehow, a soft '_whump' _behind him.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised to see, when he turned around, that Detective Marks was gone.

**XXXX**

Robbie and Dillon came back on Monday with sullen faces and sharp glares for anyone who came near them.

Their glares were especially sharp for Wes. He tried to talk to them before class, but they brushed him off. He tried to sit with them at lunch, and they got up and moved.

It wasn't just him. They were doing the same thing to Greg, too. The four of them had always hung out together, ever since freshmen year, but now they'd splintered into pieces.

_They're my friends,_ Wes had said, and Detective Marks had muttered, _Not after tonight._

It made Wes's stomach knot.

It made him wonder what the cop knew.

**XXXX**

He cornered Greg on Friday. An entire week of sharp glares and silences cold as Arctic winds and Wes couldn't take it anymore. Even worse were the times Robbie and Dillon _ignored_ him, talked around him and looked right through him like he wasn't even there.

Wes doubted they knew it, but they were doing the one thing that could hurt him the most, and he just couldn't take it.

He found Greg sitting behind the woodshop class, eating his lunch all on his own. Wes plopped down right beside him, leaning against the wall.

"What's up with Robbie and Dillon?" he asked, dropping it out there.

Greg studied his sandwich, shrugging. "Don't know what you mean."

"Come on, Greg. They're ignoring both of us. What's going on?"

The other boy shifted uncomfortably, but he finally sighed and looked up. "They're pissed at us."

Wes rolled his eyes. "No, I got that. _Why?_ What's going on?"

"Why?" Greg looked at him, eyebrows raised, like he didn't quite understand why Wes was asking. "Because I ran away and you were pulled out. They got in trouble and we didn't. We left them there."

"What?" Wes scowled. "That's ridiculous. I didn't _leave_ them there. I didn't have any choice."

Greg shrugged again, picking the crust off his bread. "Yeah, well…that's not quite true, is it?"

Wes glared sharply at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know." Greg wouldn't look at him, staring at his bread and refusing to lift his head. "Because of what your dad did."

"My father," Wes said, as though repeating the words would somehow make this make sense.

"Yeah. He got the records erased." Greg glanced up, saw the look on Wes's face, and shifted squirmed. "Robbie and Dillon were ranting about it, before they cut me out. There's no record of you getting arrested that night. It had to be your dad that pulled strings, right? Big fancy lawyer looking out for his kid."

"My father did no such—" Wes cut himself off. No, his father wouldn't do anything like that, but he knew _someone _who would. Someone who _cared_.

Except Detective Travis Marks wasn't real. There was no way.

So it must have been his father, cleaning up after Wes's messes once more. Mr. Mitchell, high-priced lawyer extraordinaire, who wouldn't have given a rat's ass if Wes was in trouble, so long as it didn't mar the family name. Who only intervened because his _own_ name might get dragged through the mud.

Wes fisted his hands into his jeans and thumped his head back against the wall. Good old dad, looking out for his offspring once more. _Oh _how he appreciated the help. Clenching his teeth, Wes shoved his frustration with his father aside. Right now he had bigger problems, like the fact that two of his friends were shunning him.

"Okay." Wes crossed his arms, frowning thoughtfully. "So they're pissed. It doesn't mean anything. They'll get over it and we'll go back to the way things were."

"I…" Greg sighed, tossing the remains of his sandwich into the yard. "I don't think it will."

"What's _that _supposed to mean?"

The other boy looked at Wes with a sad, resigned twist to his lips. "You remember after the accident, how you started going back to class? You said it scared you straight, made you want to get your life back on track?"

Wes didn't quite remember putting it like _that_, but he did recall saying something similar. "Sure."

Greg nodded, fingers twisting. "Well…this was my wake-up call. I could have been arrested. That would have gone on my _permanent record_, Wes. One stupid fight when I was a kid and it could ruin everything. I don't want that to happen again, but Robbie and Dillon…those guys can be a bad influence."

Wes felt a prickle of unease churn in his gut. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't think I'll be hanging out with the guys anymore." Greg looked at his fingers again. "They're bad news. They'll only get me in trouble. And they'll only lead you down the same path." He glanced over. "You should keep your distance too."

"Are you kidding?" Wes tensed, fingers balling into fists. "They're our friends!"

Greg just gave him a sad sort of smile as he stood. "Not anymore." He brushed the dirt off his jeans. "You should think about it, Wes. They're no good."

"They're our _friends_," Wes insisted, staying where he was. If he got up right now, he was afraid he would punch Greg right in the face, and that wouldn't help anything.

The smile Greg gave him was pitying, and it made Wes's skin boil. "See you around, Wes." Tucking his hands in his pockets, he strolled away, leaving Wes alone in the grass.

**XXXX**

Days turned into weeks, and things didn't get better. Wes tried to make it up to Robbie and Dillon, he did. He apologized, he tried to bribe them with offers to go out, he even did the unthinkable and stole a bottle of his father's whiskey and stuck it in Robbie's locker with a note. He later found the note shoved in his own locker, his own words covered in a rather explicit suggestion of what he could do. He didn't get the whiskey back.

And so Wes spent the latter half of his senior year alone and friendless.

It wasn't like he could just go up to someone and try to make new friends. Most of the kids here had grown up together, and everyone already had their cliques and groups they hung out with. Wes had always been with Robbie and the guys, and they had a certain…reputation. One that wasn't going to help him integrate with other groups now.

So, with his friends rejecting him and no one else to hang out with, Wes threw himself into his schoolwork. It seemed the only thing he could do. He got his B-'s up to A's, and he spent most afternoons in his bedroom, doing homework or reading his textbooks, which kept his parents off his back.

Occasionally, he saw Greg, passing in the halls between classes. Whenever their eyes met, Greg would duck his head and go on, like he was ashamed to even be remembered with Wes.

Robbie and Dillon continued to ignore him.

Graduation day approached. Wes ended up enrolled in a local university despite his mid-level GPA, because his parents had connections and his father's influence was great. Greg, he'd heard, had gone out East, and Dillon was heading out to the Army. He hadn't heard anything about Robbie.

In the end, Wes sat alone at his graduation, wondering if college was going to be any different than high school.

**XXXX**

The first year of college, he did rather spectacularly in his studies, if he did say so himself. He got straight A's, took a breath, and told himself he'd keep up the momentum, graduate top of his class and do whatever he wanted with the rest of his life.

He didn't have any friends, but that was purely his own fault. He was acerbic to people when they interacted, and he kept to himself. He wasn't going to have what happened in high school happen here. He refused to get attached to people, because people just left and if you were attached, if you cared too much, then it just ruined you.

Sophomore year rolled around. They switched dorms, and Wes ended up rooming with a party-happy stoner named Derrick.

That's when things started going downhill again.

Wes tried. He really did. He managed to avoid Derrick for the first two months of cohabitation, for the most part, beyond passing each other on the way out or in.

But then Derrick invited him to a Halloween party. And Wes, well, Wes had no intention of becoming Derrick's _friend_, but at the same time he hadn't been out since he started college. He'd just go, have a few drinks, and then head home.

So he said yes.

And then Derrick invited him to another party the next weekend. And another party the weekend after that. And Wes went.

Things slipped. His grades dropped—not a sharp decrease, but enough that a few of his professors called him up front and asked if he was alright. And apparently going to parties with Derrick meant that Derrick could bring his stoner buddies over to hang out, and they were so very loose and inviting and…

It was just so easy to slip into a rut. It was a lot harder to pull himself out.

**XXXX**

There was a party. There was always a party, it was a college campus full of students living on mommy and daddy's money. And Wes went to the parties, because he had nothing better to do, and no one else to hang out with. He was anti-social, but that didn't mean he _wanted_ to always be alone. Sometimes it was nice to go somewhere full of people and get stupid drunk and pretend he was part of the crowd and had friends. He was sure there were other people who did the same thing, though he hadn't met any of them.

So. There was a party. It was the last day of midterms and Spring Break was officially in session, so everyone was in full swing. This was the party for everyone who was leaving in the morning, or for the people who weren't going anywhere for break. The booze was flowing, people were dancing and groping and hanging all over one another, and people from all across campus were coming to have fun.

This was _the_ party to be at, and Wes found himself dragged along (though, truth be told, he didn't fight it that much). He ended up wandering through the house, a beer in hand, following the party as it spilled out into the yard.

That's when he saw him, standing in the middle of the porch with his arm around a girl.

Travis Marks.

Wes stopped dead in the doorway, staring at a vision that couldn't possibly be real. Travis Marks was _imaginary_, was just someone his mind conjured up to get him to straighten his act out. He wasn't _real._

Wes took a shaky sip of his beer and inched closer. The other male was telling a story to his girl, something involving a lot of arm-waving and close whispering. He leaned in to murmur something into her ear, and the light bounced off his forehead, a smooth, unbroken expanse of skin. No scar, shiny and pink and so very distinct.

This couldn't be him, then. Wes had probably just…seen him around somewhere years ago and decided to conjure up a detective character. He had no idea _why_ he would do such a thing, and finding the answer would probably involve years of psychotherapy, but the explanation seemed good enough.

Wes should have been content.

He wasn't.

Finishing the last of his beer, Wes gathered his courage and moved toward the couple. They were totally engrossed in each other, but Wes decided he wouldn't let that stop him. Taking a breath, he gathered his courage around him like a shield.

"Travis Marks?"

He was expecting the other male wouldn't even look up—no, rather, he was _hoping_ the other male wouldn't look up, wouldn't respond to the name. Because that would mean it wasn't real, that it was just someone Wes had made up instead of a complete impossibility.

But the young man _did_ look up, mildly annoyed and curious. "Yeah?"

Wes's stomach lurched. "I, uh…" What was he supposed to say now? _You look like someone I dreamed up years ago, but if you're here then I maybe in fact did not dream him up, only I don't know how that's possible. Do you happen to have an older sibling with the same name and face?_

He swallowed. "You don't, um, recognize me?"

Travis's face was politely blank. "Naw, man, should I? Do we have class together or something?"

"No, I, no, that's not…" Wes gripped his cup, feeling shaky and uncertain. "You saved me," he mumbled, more to himself than the other student.

But Travis heard.

And then he laughed, and it hurt, it hurt more than Wes expected.

"Man, I _saved_ you? How drunk areyou right now?" Travis laughed again, and the girl at his side laughed, and Wes wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground. "Dude, you need to ease up on whatever you're taking. Or, I don't know, go get more. But do it away from here, a'ight?" He waved a hand, shooing Wes away. "Go on. Can't you see I'm a little busy?"

Wes had to clench his jaw to keep from doing anything rash. His temper rose up, surging at the callous humiliation Travis so easily tossed out, and he just wanted to hit something. Wanted to sink into his own defensive mode and hit something until the pain went away.

Instead, he just turned stiffly around and walked away. He could hear Travis and the girl laughing behind him, but he refused to look back.

**XXXX**

Wes got wasted.

He _could _have left the party, but that would have meant going back to his dorm and being alone for the rest of the night. Instead, he went inside and drank and drank some more, cup after cup after little red cup of cheap beer until the room was spinning and the humiliation in his gut had dulled to a quiet ache. And by that point, it almost didn't matter what happened, in the backyard or in the future.

The music thrummed through him, a pulsing beat he could feel in his blood, and he gripped his plastic cup and staggered towards the kitchen again. Enough alcohol and _all _the problems disappeared. Even stupid impossible men named Travis.

There was a line for the keg, but Wes didn't mind. He could wait. Waiting involved leaning against the counter to keep from falling over, but that was fine. He hummed absently to himself, watching the increasingly-drunk students in line get their beer and go.

It's not like it mattered. It's not like he _cared_. Detective Travis Marks was just a figment of his imagination, because his existence was impossible, and the fact that there was someone out there who looked like his hallucination and was named the same didn't mean a thing. So there was no reason to be upset about what happened, because it didn't matter, because it wasn't _real_. So it was fine, it was all fine.

Wes snorted, staggering to the front of the line. Right, it was all _fine_. He wasn't upset at _all_ and he was totally _fine_. And pigs could fly, too.

"That damn bastard," he grumbled, shoving his cup under the tap.

"Now, that's not very nice," a familiar voice said behind him. "I mean, you have no idea what my parentage is. _I _have no idea what my parentage is."

Slowly, Wes turned. Travis Marks—the detective, not the stupid frat boy—stood there, hands in his pockets, casual as could be despite the fact that he looked ten years older than anyone in the room.

An impossibility. A completely impossible person.

Marks smiled, gentle but tight around the eyes. "You know, you keep this up, you're gonna be an alcoholic before you're twenty-five."

It pissed Wes off.

Gritting his teeth, he clenched his fingers in a fist and swung.

"Whoa!" The detective skipped back a step and easily dodged. "Yeah, no, I don't want to do this again."

Wes ignored him and swung again.

"Hot damn, you're in top form tonight." Travis danced back another step. "What's with you, skipper?"

"You damn _bastard_!" Wes swung again, and for the third time, he missed when Marks dodged. Lurching, Wes grabbed the side of the counter, cup falling from his grip, but he didn't care. He was pissed and angry and his solution whenever he felt like this had always been to hit something. And if the person in front of him didn't actually exist, then no one and nothing was hurt.

"Stupid, arrogant _prick_." Wes pushed off the counter, swinging wildly at the other male.

Marks dodged yet again, grabbing his clenched fist and twisting it behind his back. Wes hissed, squirming, but all he did was get his arm shoved a little further up his back.

"Hey, calm down, okay?" Marks murmured into his ear. "Just calm down. It's all good." Wes squirmed again, trying to break the hold, but the beer and his own anger clouded him, made it harder to figure out what he needed to do to get free. He tried one more time, but it was no use.

Sighing, he slumped, giving up. "Good," Marks said. "Good, good. If I let you go, are you going to try and hit me again?" Wes shook his head, and Marks mumbled another, "Good. Okay, here you go."

And just like that, Wes was free. He stumbled against the counter, turning to find Marks back in his original position, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels.

Wes sighed, all the anger draining out of him like a balloon. What was the point in getting angry at someone that was only in his head? That was like getting angry at himself.

"What're you doin' here?" he slurred, suddenly tired.

Marks smiled gently. "Someone told me this kid I knew would need some help home. Figured I'd volunteer." He held out his hand, and there was nothing on his face but kindness and sincerity. "Come on, Wes. Let's get you home."

Wes stared at the offered hand. He thought about denying it, staying, but what would he do other than drink some more?

"You're a damn bastard," he grumbled, but he took the offered hand.

**XXXX**

"So," Travis asked, guiding him down the sidewalk. "What's got you in such a mood tonight?"

Wes staggered along beside him, concentrating mostly on keeping his feet going in a vaguely straight line. "You," he mumbled, kicking a bottle and almost tripping. The arm slung over Marks's shoulder kept him from falling flat on his face. "Not _you_, you," he added, like that would clarify anything. "Another you."

"Ah," Marks said. "I see."

Well, glad _one_ of them understood what was happening here, because it didn't make any sense to Wes at all.

Another minute passed, and then Marks asked, "And what did the other me say?"

Wes scoffed, glaring at nothing and everything. " 'How drunk _are_ you?' " he mimicked. " 'Go _away'_. You damn _bastard_."

Marks sighed, hefting him a little higher on his shoulder. "Yeah, sorry about that. I was, in fact, a bit of a bastard back then. But I do get better."

That didn't make sense. Just like the rest of it. _Nothing_ about the man at his side made any sense.

Head lolling, Wes stared at the ground, taking care to place his feet firmly on the sidewalk. "Who're you?" he mumbled, not really expecting an answer.

He did _get_ an answer, not that it meant anything. "I'm just someone who cares," Marks said cheerfully, and Wes just scoffed again.

"You keep saying that," he mumbled, "but I don' believe you."

There was a long silence at his side before Marks ventured forth with, "Why not?"

"Because," Wes scoffed, "_nobody_ cares about me. M' family don' care. M' so-called friends don' care. I don' even care about me."

"Oh." The sound Marks made was kind of like he'd just been punched in the gut, and Wes hated himself for it. He braced himself for pity or sympathy or anything else stupid and annoying, but all Marks did was sigh and say, "The more you know." Another long pause. "But _I _care about you."

"Right." Wes scoffed again, kicking at a leaf. And missing completely. "I don' even _know_ you. You bastard."

"You will. And I hope you'll see it. But I'm totally willing to beat it into your thick skull if I have to."

And it seemed like the funniest thing in the world, that this random guy who couldn't _possibly _exist kept insisting he cared about someone like Wes. Wes giggled, shaking his head, which only made him stumble over his own feet. And _that_ just made him giggle more, because really, if he fell flat on his face this night would just be so fucking _perfect._

But he didn't fall, because the imaginary person at his side held on. Marks tightened his grip, hoisting Wes up onto his feet like he was nothing.

"God, you're wasted," the detective sighed, sounding tired and a little upset.

Wes chuckled. "Yup!"

"It's not a laughing matter, Wes."

"I think it is."

"Well, it's not." Marks sighed again, and now he sounded disapproving. But not in a stern parental sort of way, more like an I'm-your-friend-and-I'm-worried-about-you-so-shape-up sort of way. (Wes wasn't quite sure how to take that.) "You're twenty years old, Wes, you shouldn't be getting this drunk. Especially when I have to swing in and make sure you make it home."

Wes listed to the side in an attempt to get away from the other male and stand on his own two feet. "Then don't. I'm caba…capy…I can walk home m'self."

"Yeah, right." Marks pulled him against his side again, and Wes could _hear_ the roll of his eyes. "God, sometimes I wonder why I even bother."

"Then why do you?" Wes shot back, turning enough to glare at the other man. "Why do you bother at all?"

Marks was quiet a long time, long enough that Wes's dorm building came into view before he spoke. When he did, it was soft, but Wes had no trouble hearing the words.

"Because you're important to me," he said, and the way he said it make Wes pause. He said it like it was the most absolute thing in the world. "You're very, very important, Wes. Like I-would-rewrite-time important. I care about you. So I'm going to takecare of you, no matter how many foolish things you do."

Wes stared at the ground, watching the sidewalk pass beneath him. The words made something twist in his chest, and he wasn't sure if it was a good sort of feeling or a bad sort of feeling. He'd never felt like this before.

"No one's ever said that t' me before," he admitted in a small voice, feeling vulnerable and uncomfortable and he wasn't even sure why.

"Shame," Marks said gently, easing him up the stairs. "They should. It just means they don't know you. The people who care about you, they'd do anything for you. Someday you'll realize that."

Wes's throat felt tight, and he didn't say anything else.

Marks got him up to his room without Wes saying where it was, like somehow he knew. Another impossibility in an impossible situation, and Wes just couldn't even begin to fathom how this was happening. But he was too drunk to care about more than keeping his feet underneath him and hanging onto the arm around his waist.

The detective's nose crinkled when he opened the dorm door, the smell of marijuana wafting into the hall, but all he said was, "You should get some better friends, Wes," and Wes flashed back to the previous two conversations he'd had with the man and snickered. Another day, but it was the same old song and dance.

"One of these days you'll get tired of me," he groaned and Travis deposited him on the bed. He flung an arm over his eyes, not caring how melodramatic it looked. "You'll realize the truth and give up."

There was a hesitation, and then the bed dipped a little. "What truth?" Marks asked, soft and careful like he thought Wes was going to break if he went too hard.

"That I'm a fuck-up," Wes slurred, because the alcohol made his tongue looser than it usually was. And there was something about Marks, something in Wes that _wanted_ to trust the frustrating, impossible man, a part of him that said _It's okay, tell him_, so that didn't help his filters any. "I'm fucked up, and I'll fuck you up too."

"Oh, Wes," the other man whispered with all the understanding in the world.

Wes started when Marks's hand settled on his hair, but he didn't remove his arm from his eyes. He couldn't bear to imagine the look on the other man's face.

But when Marks spoke, there was no pity in his voice. "You'll understand," he said, and there it was in his voice again, that _I know something you don't know_ tone. "Someday, you'll understand how untrue that is. At least, I hope you will."

"Yeah?" Wes laughed bitterly. "And when is that supposed to start happening?"

"Whenever you want it to," Marks said, like it was that easy, like Wes could just go out tomorrow and fix himself and be perfect. "But you can't keep falling into the same patterns, man. That doesn't lead to anything."

"Yeah?" Wes shifted his arm just enough to glare balefully at the other man. "Then what am I supposed to do, huh? How am I supposed to change so I _understand?_"

If Marks noted the sarcasm, he didn't mention it.

"First," he said, still stroking Wes's hair like a cat, and for once Wes didn't actually mind the touch. "You get rid of your roommate as soon as Spring Break ends. Hell, leave a note for your RA so he sees it as soon as he gets back from break. Find a roommate who won't drag you to parties and smoke weed in your room. That'll help for sure."

That was actually sound advice. Truth be told, Wes had thought something similar a while ago. He shifted and didn't say anything.

"Second," Marks said, "go to the library tomorrow." He pulled his hand away, and Wes found himself missing the touch, just a little bit. "Sit on the third floor, in the chairs by the window. I think you'll find something good there."

The touch returned, and Wes relaxed minutely, feeling…

safe.

That was what this was. This felt like _safety_, like trust and protection and security.

Wes hadn't felt anything like it in such a long time, he almost didn't recognize it. And he wasn't sure why Travis Marks—this version, at least—was creating such feelings.

He was pretty sure he didn't like it. He always hated not understanding the things happening around him.

"You'll be okay, Wes," Marks said, giving one last gentle stroke to Wes's hair. "Just listen to what I said, man, and everything will turn out okay."

Then there was the faintest sound of displaced air, and the bed shifted, settling to fit just one body instead of two. When Wes looked, Marks was gone.

Impossible. Completely, fantastically impossible.

**XXXX**

Wes woke up hungover and in a pissy mood. Neither food nor coffee helped, and the noise of people packing up and leaving for break only made it worse. Wes groaned, rubbing his temples, and tried to think of somewhere he could go _without _the hustle and bustle of excited college students.

_Go to the library tomorrow._

A flicker of a memory from last night filtered through, and Wes frowned at the carpet. He was reluctant to follow the advice of any figment of his imagination, no matter how good of an idea it sounded.

"Dude, I am _stoked_!" Derrick slammed his way into the room, already smelling like weed. "A full _week, _man, it's gonna be _awesome!_"

On the other hand, the library was sure to be quiet.

Wes grabbed his sunglasses off his dresser and made his way to the library. It was blissfully quiet and blessedly cool, and just the absence of sound made his headache ease slightly. Following instructions he only half-remembered, he went up the winding staircase to the third floor, wandering among the stacks until he found a cozy little sitting nook in the corner.

There were three students sitting in the chairs, heads bowed together. Wes groaned to himself, but he'd already made it this far and his head was aching. This corner of the library was nice and cool, air conditioning running and the tree by the window casting the chairs in shade. And the other students weren't making a lot of noise, so Wes risked it and plopped into the chair farthest from them. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go right now, and maybe staying here for a little while would make the hangover go away.

Sighing, he closed his eyes and settled in. The students in the other chairs kept muttering and murmuring to themselves, but Wes ignored them. It was like white noise, really.

And then one of them cleared their throat and said, "Excuse me?" and Wes bit back a groan. Seriously? _Seriously_, he couldn't get five minutes of peace? _Fuck you, Travis Marks, you and your stupid advice._

He opened one eye and glared balefully at the little study group. The effect that was ruined by the sunglasses hiding his eyes, but he got the intent into his voice. "_What?_"

The one who'd spoken, a young Asian man who needed to get his eyes checked because good god, that shirt was a hideous mix of colors, hardly seemed to notice Wes's tone. "You're Mitchell, right? You're in Cortez's Civil Lit?"

That gave Wes pause. "You know me?" He hadn't gone around making close friends in any of his classes, not really, and the classes weren't small enough that everyone automatically knew each other.

The woman with her back to him snorted, turning to face him. "Of course we know you. Anyone who's taken that class knows you."

"Kind of hard not to," the first guy said with a casual shrug. "I mean, you always argue with the prof."

"Makes you famous," the last guy chimed in.

"More like infamous," the girl said, shaking her head so her hair swished around her shoulders.

Wes took this information in, analyzed it, and found he really didn't know what to do with it. "Okay, you know me," he said, snippy to hide his confusion. "What do you want?"

The colorblind Asian held up a paper. "You're smart. You're not just arguing with Cortez to be belligerent. And we…are not as smart."

"Could you maybe walk through this with us?" the other guy said, leaning forward with an eager sort of earnestness. He radiated trustworthiness. Normally that would make Wes tense up.

Now, he just blinked, and frowned, and tried to process. "Sorry, you want my help studying?"

"Like said, you're smart. And everyone knows Cortez gives killer pop-quizzes after break. We'd work through this a lot faster if you were helping us."

Wes honestly didn't know how to deal with this. He was used to people avoiding him, or paying him attention only when they thought he was doing something they didn't like. Sure, these three wanted something from him, but… It was different, somehow. They wanted his _help_.

People didn't want his _help_, because he was sharp around the edges and had a bad attitude. And Wes wasn't sure what to do with this new information.

After almost a minute, the woman nudged her friend and rolled her eyes. "See, I told you he wouldn't want to help us. Come on, I'm sure we can figure this out…" She turned back to the table.

"No, I—" Three pairs of eyes turned to him, and Wes shifted a little. He wasn't quite certain what was going to come out of his mouth; he opened it anyway.

"I can help."

"Sweet." The colorblind Asian and the woman shuffled their chairs, opening up a space between them. "Pull up a seat then, my man."

Hesitantly, Wes did, still not entirely certain this wasn't a giant prank of some sort. But as soon as he was seated, the woman shoved a stapled stack of papers in front of him and said, "Okay, so we were having some trouble with this section here…"

Three hours later, Wes left the library minus the hangover headache, with another study session planned for Wednesday.

It felt good.

**XXXX**

As it turned out, Wes was pretty good at being in a study group, in that he was good at pointing out other people's mistakes and being brutally honest about how to change it. The people in his study group seemed to respond well enough, in that they kept coming back for more. The study groups became a weekly thing, even when the new semester rolled around and they had different classes.

He changed roommates as soon as Spring Break ended. Being away from Derek helped—he stopped going to parties, and the study groups helped give him something to do on the weekends that didn't involve alcohol. His new roommate was a quiet math major who mostly kept to himself and left Wes alone, so that helped too.

And slowly, things changed. He kind of liked the person he'd become, studious and hard-working, and he realized that if he kept this up, he could do anything in the world.

_I'm fucked up, and I'll fuck you up too_, he'd confessed once in a dream, and it hadn't exactly stopped being true—he couldn't just stop being fucked up in a matter of months—but he started to realize that he didn't have to let that stop him.

**XXXX**

He graduated second in his class with honors, and he'd never been more proud of himself.

He got into law school, and Wes was determined to continue to push himself, refusing to let himself fall back into old habits. The first day of the second semester, a young woman with dark hair and dancing blue eyes sat down beside him and held out her hand.

"Hi," she said, "I'm Alex MacFarland."

He smiled and took her hand. "Wes Mitchell."

They studied together. Study sessions led to partner projects in the library, which somehow, eventually, ended with the two of them leaning together and kissing, and Wes wasn't even sure how it happened, just that he liked it. From there, it became even more imperative that he not fail and revert to old ways. Now he had something to work for.

Alex was wonderful. Funny and witty, smart and willing to trade sarcasm and dry wit when other people would have been walking away in frustration. And she didn't seem to mind his sharp edges and blunt personality, even helped temper it so other people were annoyed and frustrated less.

She became his compass, the arrow that pointed him in the right direction and promised something amazing at the end of the trail.

It wasn't hard to fall in love.

The day he and Alex passed the bar, with offers to two firms in his pocket and three in hers, he proposed.

She said yes.

They got married in the fall, a small affair right before they were both set to start their new jobs. Alex's parents were there; Wes's weren't. He wasn't too upset about that.

During the reception, Wes found himself looking over the guests, often enough that even Alex noticed.

"Who are you looking for?" she asked, looping her arm in his. "Did someone come late?"

_I'm searching for my imaginary friend, someone I made up when I was low_, he didn't say. _I want him to be here so I can show him how well I'm going, how I've turned things around and it's so much better than it was. I'M so much better. I want to show him I can take care of myself now, and I don't need him to come save me anymore._

But that wasn't possible, because Detective Travis Marks was an impossibility that couldn't exist. Just someone Wes made up when he was most desperate.

He patted his wife's hand and smiled. "It's nothing. Shall we dance?"

**XXXX**

Travis Marks wasn't real. There was _a_ Travis Marks out there, somewhere, a belligerent jerk Wes had met once at a party.

But the man he'd first seen in the hospital, who kept appearing ever since, _he_ wasn't real. Wes knew that.

Only, sometimes he forgot. Sometimes he still looked over his shoulder, expecting a warm, bright grin and _I'm someone who cares_, even though he knew it was impossible. It had to be.

But he looked back on those encounters, those special moments in time, and they felt so _real_, real enough that he didn't know _how_ he could have possibly imagined them.

But he must have. There was no other explanation.

**XXXX**

The firm was a great job, well-known with a high-class clientele. It wasn't always the work Wes wanted to be doing, but it was experience and he was the junior lawyer with one of the more experienced partners, so it was a great learning experience.

And then came The Case, the first of two that would change everything.

**XXXX**

At five in the morning, the docks were eerily empty. Wes had never given much thought into what docks would be like, but he'd always sort of thought they were just…kind of always running, ships coming in and workers unloading cargo and whatnot. But no, the area was void of life and the only sounds were the waves slapping the docks and the cry of seagulls above.

It was, all in all, incredibly unsettling.

Frowning, Wes checked his watch. 5:05 AM. Okay, he'd give this guy ten more minutes before calling it quits. He wasn't going to spend all day here, waiting for an anonymous tipster.

He tucked his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the chill coming off the water. Maybe he wouldn't wait ten whole minutes. Maybe he'd just wait five—

"Wes! Get down!"

Wes's head whipped around, eyes widening. Coming right at him was Travis Marks, mouth opened in a panicked shout. In his hand was a gun, but Wes wasn't afraid. Instead, his body seized, disbelief paralyzing him in place.

Marks was here. He was here, right now.

That was _impossible._

"Wes!" Another shout, and then two things happened at once: Marks was on him, tackling him around the waist and bringing him to the ground; and a shot rang out, the bullet flying right through the spot his head had been.

Marks returned fire, crouched protectively over Wes, but all Wes could do was stare up at the man above him. _Impossible_, he thought, eyes roaming the pink scar on Marks's forehead. _This is impossible._

"Come on!" Marks grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. He was solid and tangible and Wes could do little more than stagger after him in shock.

More shots rang out behind him. Wes flinched, and Marks shot randomly behind him.

Maybe this whole thing was a dream, Wes thought hysterically. He was being shot at by who the hell knew, and an impossible man he'd made up years ago was rescuing him. Wes wasn't drunk right now, and as far as he knew he didn't have any sort of head wound.

This _had_ to be a dream. Because otherwise this was all too real, and Wes just didn't know how that could be.

**XXXX**

"Here." A cool cup of water was pressed into his hands. "Drink. You'll feel better."

Wes obediently brought his hand up. The instant the glass touched his lips, he snapped out of his daze, yanking away from the cup. "Is this tap water?" he demanded, scowling at the other male. "I don't drink tap water."

Travis—because if a guy saved your life, you might as well call him by his first name—grinned, taking the glass back and swapping it for a sealed bottle of water. "Thought that would do it. How're you feeling?"

"Um." Wes opened the cap and took a long swallow of water. Instant relief was not forthcoming. "That depends. Am I drunk, concussed, or otherwise mentally compromised in any way?"

"That'd be a big ol' no."

"Then I'm really not doing okay." A little shakier, Wes took another sip of water, looking around the room. It was a shabby motel room decorated in tacky seventies-era green-and-orange wallpaper. He frowned. "Where are we?"

"Someplace safe." Travis leaned in a little, searching his face. "You doing better now, at least? 'Cuz you kind of looked like you were gonna fall over a minute ago."

Wes managed to drain his water as he thought about it. He vaguely recalled being bundled into a rental car and driving around for an hour before stopping, but most of it was just a big blur.

Well, that was understandable. His entire world had gone topsy-turvy in less than an hour. Wes groaned, running his hand over his face. "You're real," he said, receiving a nod in response. Wes's hand dropped to his lap, and he gripped the water bottle like a security blanket. "How are you real?"

"I'll let you figure that one out." Travis patted his knee as he stood. "I'll be right outside. Gimme a holler when you're ready. I'm sure you have some calls to make."

Wes was sure he should be more disconcerted than he actually was when he saw Travis check his gun before stepping out. But he wasn't. Maybe it was shock.

For a long time after the door closed, all Wes could do was sit there.

**XXXX**

When he finally emerged from the motel room, he found Travis leaning on the hood of his rental, popping M&M's into his mouth and scanning the parking lot with sharp eyes.

"Finish your calls?" he asked as Wes came up, holding out the bag.

Wes stared at the candies, feeling cold despite the rising heat in the air. "Ah, no thank you." He tugged his coat a little tighter around himself. "Natalie Lo is dead."

A curious silence met his statement. He licked his lips. "She's…um, she _was_ working with me on the case."

"Ah."

"And now she's dead." No matter how tight he pulled his coat around himself, he still felt cold. "And someone tried to shoot me. I don't…" He swallowed, mind going to scary places. "Is my wife okay?"

"She's safe." Travis's smile was warmly reassuring; Wes found himself believing it. "Alex is safe," Travis assured him again. "I have a couple of brothers who won't let anything happen to her."

Wes nodded absently, and something tight in his chest eased a little. "Thank you." He let out a shaky breath and asked, for the umpteenth time, "Who are you, Travis Marks?"

"I told you." Travis crunched on an M&M, staring at the cars in the lot. "I'm just someone who cares."

That still didn't tell Wes anything, but he was too shaken up to care.

Travis's gaze softened. "You should go inside, Wes. Rest. Let things process a little." The corner of his mouth crooked up. "It's going to be a long day."

There didn't seem to be anything else to do. Wes went back inside.

**XXXX**

It was hours before Travis came in. Wes didn't rest—god, no, it was a _motel bed_—but he did do a lot of thinking and processing. So when Travis returned with lunch (take out from the Chinese place down the street) Wes felt much calmer and clearer.

He also had a lot of questions.

"Who are you?"

"A delivery boy," Travis chirped without missing a beat. "This one's yours, I got you the number four. Not quite sure what's in it but it's full of veggies, I know how you are about your veggies."

Wes stared at the Styrofoam and didn't make a move to open it. "I figured it out," he mumbled, and from the corner of his eye he saw Travis pause. A little louder, he said, "I know what you are."

"Oh?"

"You don't age." Wes looked up, at the scar that had been the same shiny pink _newness_ for ten years. "You use…weird tenses, sometimes, you say the strangest things. You're always there when I need you most. You have that big ugly watch."

Travis glanced down and made a face that said _Yeah, it is a big ugly watch._ "Say it," he murmured, oddly intense as he looked up. "Out loud."

Swallowing hard, Wes couldn't quite believe he was saying it even as the words came out of his mouth.

"You're a time traveler."

There was a tense moment of silence, like the world itself was holding its breath.

Then Travis leaned back with a gusty exhale that sounded like a laugh. "Oh, thank god you didn't say vampire."

Wes gaped at him. "W-why would I _possibly _say vampire?"

"Because of _Twilight?_" Travis frowned at Wes's confusion. "It's a book series. About vampires. Extremely popular with teenage girls? No?" The frown deepened. "Huh. Well, it may be after your time. I don't actually know when those things came out."

That…didn't actually dispel Wes's argument in the slightest. He shook his head. "Are you a time traveler or not?"

"Oh. Right. Sorry. Yes I am." Travis grinned shamelessly and popped a piece of chicken in his mouth.

Wes shook his head again. When this didn't help, he braced his elbows on the table. "That's impossible."

"You're telling me. And yet, here we are." Travis shrugged, face saying, _Hey, what can you do?_

Great. Just great. Wed managed to find himself in the middle of a sci-fi novel. "Wow. How is this even possible?"

Travis shrugged again. "I dunno."

"How does it work?"

"I really don't know."

Wes frowned. "Well, what's the science behind it?"

"Beats me." The detective tipped his chair back on two legs with a chuckle. "Man, science was never my strong suit."

"Then how—"

"How about this?" Travis interrupted, dropping back to the ground. "I'll give you absolute proof I'm telling the truth. And then we can move past this and talk about, y'know, the guy who was trying to shoot you. Yeah?"

Wes blinked. "Um."

"Yeah." Travis nodded eagerly, undoing the strap on his wrist. "This is a good plan. Here."

Curiosity was a powerful motive, and Wes was interested enough to slowly take the big ugly watch and strap it on.

"Okay." Travis leaned forward, pointing with his chopsticks. "The big dial is date; months, years, days. The little one is time. So, pick a time later today, and—oh, don't tell me. That way when you show up it'll be like a magic trick!"

"You're very strange," Wes said in a voice much calmer than he actually felt. His brow furrowed a little as he carefully turned to smaller dial to _2123 hours._

"Whenever you're ready," Travis said, shoveling rice in his mouth, "press the black button."

Wes studied the man in front of him, who stared back with no guile on his face. Then he looked down at the watch, finger hovering over the black button.

He took a breath, braced himself, and pushed it.

**XXXX**

When Wes was a kid, he went on a school trip to an amusement park once. There was a ride where he stood in a tube, and when it started spinning, the centrifugal force pushed him against the walls and he couldn't move.

Time travel was just like that ride, without the crushing force or the nausea. The ground tilted underneath his feet, and the walls spun in a dizzying rush of colors and lights. Wes's ears popped painfully, and he had the sensation of moving rapidly and standing still at the same time.

Then it all stopped, and Wes was sitting at the same table, in the same seat. The tabletop had been cleared of lunch, but other than that everything was the exact same as he left it. For a moment, Wes thought it was all a trick.

But the light shining through the blinds was the pink gloom of evening, when just a minute ago it had been high noon. No one could fake that.

" 'bout time," Travis's voice chirped behind him. "I was starting to think you'd never show."

Slowly, Wes turned. Travis was sprawled on one of the beds, watching TV on low, and when he saw Wes watching, he waved two fingers and gave him a smug grin.

But that wasn't what made Wes stare, wasn't what made the ground lurch beneath his feet even though he wasn't moving.

Sitting cross-legged on the other bed, a pen and pad of paper in his lap, was…himself.

The other Wes looked up, smiling sardonically. "I know, right?" and it was _his_ voice coming out of _his_ mouth and Wes's entire world was tilting on its axis.

"Here." Future-Wes reached over to the nightstand and tossed a small bottle of hand sanitizer to him. Wes caught it on autopilot, and the smile he received this time was a little crooked. Future-Wes knew because he _was_ Wes.

Holy _shit_. He'd traveled through _time_.

Dazed, he looked to Travis, who was watching him with mild amusement in his eyes. Wes licked his lips. "How…uh, how do I go back?"

"The red button." The darker man just grinned. "See you on the flip side, Wes."

Clutching the hand sanitizer his future self threw at him, Wes pushed the red button.

The world tilted and spun around him, then righted itself, and he was back at the table, surrounded by Chinese takeout.

Travis grinned at him. "How was your trip?"

**XXXX**

His food was still warm. Wes took off the watch and handed it back without a word, staring at the Styrofoam container. There was still steam rising off his rice. He'd just traveled over nine hours into the future. Warm food seemed awfully incongruous.

"Time travel is real." On automatic, he popped open the hand sanitizer and poured some into his palm. As soon as he started rubbing it in, he felt better. A little, all things considered.

"Absolutely," Travis said, even though it wasn't really directed at him. He finished strapping the watch on and picked up his food again. "Now that that's all sorted, let's talk about the guy who wants to kill you." He nudged Wes's container towards him. "You should eat."

Wes felt sluggish as he picked up the chopsticks, but the first bite did help. As did the second. By the fifth bite, Wes was feeling almost human again. Well enough to take a breath and tell Travis about the case. About the businessman who hired a hitman to kill his rival, and the secretary who overheard everything. About the anonymous tip that supposedly had information about an actual meeting between the businessman and his hired killer.

"So it's this businessman," Travis said after the summation. "He tried to kill his rival, now he's trying to take out the case against him before it even starts by taking out the lawyers."

"Except he's been locked up since the arrest," Wes pointed out. "No phone calls, no contact with anyone except family. He couldn't have done it."

"Hmm." Travis leaned back with a frown. "Guess we'll have to make a list. People with the means, and people with the motive. Hopefully we'll find an intersect."

"Okay." Wes started gathering the trash up. "I'll need paper and a pen."

"I can get that." Travis stood, stretching. "Anything else?"

Wes thought about his short trip to the future, and he glanced at the bottle beside his hand. He smiled.

"Yeah. Pick up a bottle of hand sanitizer."

**XXXX**

For two days, Travis was his near-constant companion, and Wes rarely left the hotel room. He made a lot of phone calls, coordinating with his office in light of the death of Natalie Lo, and he spent just as much time talking to Alex to assure her he was fine, he was safe, everything was okay. But until they figured out this thing with the hitman, Travis didn't want Wes just out and about. Thinking of Alex, Wes agreed.

On the third day, Travis appeared in the middle of the motel room with a whoosh of displaced air. He had a scrape on his cheek that hadn't been there half an hour ago, his arm was in a sling, and his jeans were ripped. But he was grinning as he said, "You can go home now."

"I can?" Wes rose off the bed. "How? Are you okay?"

"This?" Travis made a motion to the sling. "It's nothing. Dislocated shoulder, it'll be fine in a few days."

Wes hovered by the detective, wonder if he should do anything or not. "What did you _do_, Travis?"

"I found the hitman." He clapped Wes on the shoulder. "And he won't come after you again. I'll probably hang around in the shadows a little longer, just to make sure no one else tries anything, but for now, you can go home."

"Thank you." Wes didn't know what else he could say. It wasn't just this, Travis getting rid of the hitman problem. It was everything—saving him in the first place, showing up when Wes needed him…being there when Wes was fifteen years old and stupid and through all the other years. "Thank you."

The look Travis gave him was inordinately warm, and carried a depth of emotion Wes didn't understand. It sent a flutter through him—he didn't look at it too closely.

Travis gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I'll see you around, Wes." He fumbled for the button of his watch, and then he was gone between one blink and the next.

Less than five minutes later, the door opened, and Travis walked through, the uninjured version who'd left thirty minutes ago. He paused when he saw Wes gathering his stuff. "What's up?"

"I'm going home," Wes informed him. At the other male's frown, Wes assured him, "It's safe. It's all fine now."

Travis moved into the room, tense and alert. "Where'd you hear that from?"

And Wes could really only laugh. "I heard it from you."

**XXXX**

Wes didn't see Travis again after that. Not for two months, not until the first day of the trial when he was awash with nerves and seriously doubting his ability to do this alone. That's why Natalie Lo had been there in the first place.

That's when Travis materialized out of an alcove with that familiar bright grin, and for reasons Wes couldn't name his stomach eased.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, ducking into the shadows.

Travis shrugged, leaning easily against the wall. He still had his arm in a sling, and the scrape on his cheek was a little healed, but still prominent enough, despite the fact that Wes had seen this version of Travis over two months ago. Time travel, what a thing.

"Heard from a source that you could maybe use a pep talk," the man said, grin nothing but confidence. "You've got this one in the bag."

"Oh yeah?" Wes chuckled sourly, running his hand through his hair. "Let me guess, you know that because you're from the future? Because I'm not feeling so confident right now."

"Wes." Travis's touch was gentle and firm on his arm, and there was nothing but faultless faith in his eyes. "I don't have to be from the future to know you're brilliant, and you're gonna shine like a star."

A warm rush flowed through him, easily dispelling the nervous butterflies and filling him with confidence. Amazing how a few words from a man he still barely knew could inspire such emotion.

Wes wasn't going to look at it too hard. He was married and Travis wasn't even from this time. There was no future there, pun intended.

Oblivious to the turmoil in Wes's mind, Travis lightly punched his arm. "Go get 'em, tiger."

Right. The case. Wes took a breath and brushed everything else aside. He needed to focus. The rest was inconsequential.

He squared his shoulders, ran his hands over his jacket. "How do I look?"

"Like a rock star," Travis smile, eyes bright but a little sad. Like he was looking at something he'd never seen before and something he'd never see again.

Wes didn't have time to ponder that. He had a case to win. He hefted his briefcase and turned to the hall. "I have to go. See you later, Travis."

He heard a soft, "Later, Wes," and a _whomph_ of displaced air. Wes didn't have to look to know Travis was gone.

He walked into that courtroom with his head held high, _knowing_ he could win this. After all, he had it on the best authority that he did.

**XXXX**

Wes won his case. And the next one, and the one after that. He was on a roll, winning more cases then he lost, and that got him attention—of the good kind. Within a year, he had been promoted to partner, the youngest in the firm.

He and Alex celebrated with champagne. "Is there anyone you want to tell?" Alex asked after they clinked glasses.

Wes stalled by taking a sip. There was one person who came to mind immediately—but Travis already knew. Anyone else…Wes didn't really have anyone else.

After a moment, when the silence dragged on too long, Alex prompted softly, "You should tell your mother."

Wes stared at her. "My _mother?_" He hadn't had a decent conversation with his mother since he left for college. At best they traded the occasional well-wishes at the holidays and little more.

(He hadn't talked to his father at all, not since he left, but Alex knew better than to bring that up.)

"She'd like to know," Alex murmured, watching him with eyes that knew more than she was saying. "You should give her a call when you have the chance."

Wes wasn't going to. But hours later, sitting in his office before he retired to bed, he thought about what she said. _She'd like to know_. And the truth of the matter was, Alex was right about this. His mother _would_ like to know.

And he thought about the person he wanted to tell, but couldn't, and how the news bubbled up in his chest, ready to be released.

_She'd like to know._

He took a breath and picked up the phone, dialing a number he hadn't called in ages. It rang, and he almost put it back down, but then she picked up and said in that familiar, stiff voice, "Mitchell residence."

Wes took a breath. "Hello, mom."

**XXXX**

After the phone call, things with his mother, while not perfect, were at least cordial. Things with Alex were better than ever. And his job, though it kept him busy, was fantastic. It was the best time of his life, and Wes wondered how things would have turned out if Travis Marks hadn't shown up ten years ago. Where would he be if a stranger pretending to be a doctor hadn't appeared in his hospital room?

It wasn't work thinking about. This was his life, and it was pretty much perfect.

**XXXX**

Nothing perfect ever lasts.

**XXXX**

By the time the bartender cut him off, Wes hadn't quite managed to fill the gaping hole in his chest with whiskey, but he'd made a damn good effort. He tried in vain to get the guy to keep serving him; when that didn't work, he tossed some bills down in a huff and staggered out.

Even as he dug into his pockets for his keys, some part of him knew it was an epically bad idea.

Some part of him really didn't care.

Slumping against the side of the car, Wes tried to get the keys into the lock, growling when they kept missing the keyhole. As if enough hadn't gone wrong today.

"You know," A voice said behind him, a voice that made his entire body seize up. "Not only is it an incredibly bad idea to drive home when you're this drunk, but that's not _actually_ your car."

Wes's hands clenched into fists, his keys digging painfully into his palm, but he hardly noticed. A blinding rage exploded in his chest, the kind of anger he hadn't felt since he was a pissed-off teen, the kind that consumed him and made him do stupid, reckless things.

The kind of rage that made him want to get in fights, because if someone else was hurting then maybe he wouldn't feel so bad.

"You," he snarled. There was venom in his voice, but he wasn't exactly trying to hold it back.

"Hi, Wes." Travis didn't smile, didn't even try. Probably for the best. If he'd smiled right now Wes didn't know what he'd do. But he was staring at Wes with eyes that carried all the sympathy in the world.

That sympathy just made Wes angrier.

He lurched forward, grabbed two fistfuls of Travis's jacket and pushed him into another car. He knew, vaguely, that Travis was _letting_ Wes manhandle him, and that was one more insult added to the pile. "You _bastard_."

"Wes," Travis said in the most infuriatingly calm voice Wes had ever heard. "I'm sorry about Anthony. I really am. But this wasn't my fault. I didn't do anything."

"_Exactly!_" The punch surprised them both, Travis more so than Wes. The detective cupped his jaw, eyes wide, as Wes's shoulder slammed into the side of the car, pitched off-balance by the throw. That didn't make him pause. "You're a _time traveler!_ You could have saved him! _But you didn't do anything!_"

Travis's eyes widened even further. "You know? How? Who told you?"

Wes was too pissed to be confused. "Who do you think? _You_ did!" He lashed out again with a growl, but the whiskey coursing through his veins made the ground spin beneath his feet, and he stumbled.

Before he could fall, Travis caught him, one arm wrapping around his waist and the other curling around his fist. "Let's put that away, okay, Wes?" He held Wes tight against his chest, and Wes was too drunk to do more than struggle feebly. "You're mad, I get that. But just take a breath, okay?"

Wes didn't want to take a breath, because if he did he'd calm down, and the anger was filling the hole in his chest _so_ nicely. But there was little else he could do—Travis wasn't letting him go, and he was too fuzzy to get free on his own. The only option he had was to tremble in Travis's grasp and slowly let the volcano in his chest burn itself out.

Wes went limp. The fight didn't leave him—it was still there, below the surface, beneath his skin, calling for him to fight and snarl and draw blood until he felt better, no matter how temporary the relief was. But he couldn't do it, the energy to sustain the fires drained away, leaving him shaky and out of sorts as his knees gave out.

Travis followed him to the ground, still holding Wes tight. "I'm sorry," he said, over and over, "I'm so sorry."

"He was just a kid," Wes spat, throat tight. "Why couldn't you save him?"

"I couldn't." Travis leaned his head against Wes's shoulder, sounding pained. "I wish I could, but I _couldn't_."

"Why _not?_" Another time, Wes would have been ashamed at how the words came out as a wail, but it didn't seem to matter right now.

"Because," Travis murmured, and now he sounded as agonized as Wes felt. "Because for everything to turn out the way it needs to, some people have to die. That's just how it works."

Wes closed his eyes, tears welling that he didn't want to fall. "But why _him?_" he hiccupped, and despite his best efforts, a few tears slipped down his cheeks. It wasn't fair, that a bright kid like Anthony was _dead¸_ and there wasn't anything Wes could do, and there wasn't anything Travis _would_ do.

Travis didn't say anything, just held him tight.

Wes closed his eyes as the trickle from his eyes turned to a stream. "What's the point, then?" he choked out. "What good is time travel if you can't save him?"

There was a long silence, like Travis was sorting the words in his head. Finally, he hugged Wes close, holding him like he'd never let go.

"I can be here for you," he whispered, and it wasn't enough, it was nowhere _near_ enough, a boy was dead and it was Wes's fault, but it was something. It was the prompt needed to pierce the anger, to make the grief rise to the surface.

Wes turned his head and buried his face in Travis's chest, and he wept.

**XXXX**

Travis got him into a cab and rode with him to his house. Wes let himself be manhandled, leaning against the window and not even caring what was on the seats probably seeping into his clothes. He was so beyond caring right now.

He couldn't even be bothered to wonder why he was okay with breaking down in front of Travis but had to leave and drink at a bar instead of crying in front of his wife. He was just done for tonight. And tomorrow. And probably a long time to come.

The cab pulled up in front of his house, and for a long minute Wes just stared at it, trying to muster up the energy to go inside. He didn't want to go inside, didn't want to face his wife's sympathetic and pitying gaze and her concern. He was _fine_.

No, no he wasn't fine in the slightest. He would _be_ fine, he would _make_ himself be fine, but right now he wasn't okay and he didn't want Alex hovering over him like he was made of glass.

"It gets better, Wes," Travis said softly from beside him.

Wes sighed, breath frosting on the window, and he didn't look over and he ignored the way his heart fluttered hopefully in his chest at the words. _Better_. He so desperately wanted things to be _better_ right now.

"I'm still mad at you," he said instead. His gaze shifted just enough to see Travis's face in the reflection. The other male didn't even look nonplussed. He just looked kind of sad.

But not pitying like Alex would. More like he was commiserating with Wes's pain.

It made Wes's chest clench, and he looked away, watching the lights on his front porch.

"I guess I should expect that," Travis murmured, and then, even softer, he said, "It was necessary, Wes."

_I'm so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Padua, I'm so sorry I couldn't do anything—_

"I don't see how it could have possibly been necessary," Wes whispered, and Travis didn't say anything.

Wes closed his eyes, mustering up the energy to get up and go inside. He didn't even have to ask to know, somehow, that Travis wouldn't come with him.

The front door opened, and Alex stood silhouetted in the doorway, probably wondering why there was a cab lurking at the end of her driveway, and Wes sighed. No more stalling anymore. He reached for the door.

"Wes," Travis said softly from behind him. Wes didn't look over, but his hand paused on the handle, waiting.

Travis took a breath. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Wes felt tears well up in his eyes, and he swallowed around a painfully tight lump in his throat. "I'm still mad at you," he choked out, trying desperately not to cry.

"I know." A warm, firm hand rested on his shoulder, and for a moment, it felt like the most stable thing in the world. "But it gets better."

Wes turned, opened his mouth to ask, but Travis just smiled gently and gave his shoulder a little nudge. "Go on, Wes. Your wife is waiting."

Slowly, Wes pushed opened the door, staggering onto the sidewalk. Alex stood there, her arms tight across her chest, and he could see the way her face was tight and drawn even from here.

For a moment, Wes wanted to jump climb back in the cab and not go home, not have to worry about dealing with anyone except the man who promised it would get _better_.

But when he glanced behind him, the back of the cab was empty.

**XXXX**

Work suffered. His marriage suffered. Everything suffered because he couldn't let Anthony go.

He couldn't do what he needed to do, because he needed to be doing _more_. It just wasn't enough, his work, not compared to what happened with Anthony.

Wes sat in his home at night, the case file spread in front of him, going over and over his notes, looking for that one clue, that one hint, that one sign that could have stopped this from happening. It _had_ to be here, there had to be _something_, something that could have prevented this and he just missed it, because he refused to believe there was _nothing_ he could do.

Alex was worried about him, hovering on the edges and trying to push her way in, but he wouldn't let her. This wasn't her problem, she didn't need to deal with this.

Wes spent _months _hunched over the couch in his living room, trying to find that missing piece. And finally, he realized it wasn't there. There was absolutely nothing he could have done. By the time the case got to him, it was already too late.

He sat back with a shaky breath, staring at the box on the coffee table with unseeing eyes.

By the time the case got to him…

Oh.

**XXXX**

He told Alex what he was going to do at breakfast. She tried to talk him out of it, of course, said he wasn't thinking straight, but for the first time in months Wes felt like he was _finally_ clear-headed enough to focus.

That day he went in and quit at the firm.

He signed up at the Police Academy not long after.

**XXXX**

This was right. It didn't make things easy with his wife—Alex thought he was making a big mistake, thought he just needed some time to relax and move past Anthony and then he could go back to the firm, but she didn't understand. This was _right_. He could feel it in his bones.

He wished there was a way he could show her that, could let her know he hadn't gone and thrown everything away. He'd made the right choice here and he would stick by it, because otherwise he had nothing. He just wished he could prove it to her.

(He knew one person who could prove it, but he couldn't call Travis on demand, and even if he could, it wasn't as though Travis would _tell_ her. The man made a point of not letting things slip about the future. Probably didn't want to, like, break time or something.)

(Hell, Travis hadn't even let _Wes_ know if this was the right decision, but Wes could feel it. He _knew_. _This_ was what he was supposed to be doing right now. And that was enough.)

Alex was no longer his compass. He had to follow what _he_ thought was right, and this was it. If he didn't believe that, he would just fall apart at the seams. He _needed_ to believe this was the right path.

So Wes slogged on. He endured tense dinners with his wife where they didn't talk about work and avoided topics like his career change or friends at work who were no longer really his friends.

Things would settle, he was sure. They just had to give it enough time. Eventually Alex would see that this was the better option, and they would go back to the way things were. It would be alright.

**XXXX**

Towards the end of his time at the Academy, a speaker came to his class and Wes ducked low in his seat. He could recognize Travis Marks from across the room, though it wasn't the Travis from the future. There was no scar on his forehead, and somehow if it _was_ the time traveler, Wes was sure Travis would have seen him and made _some_ acknowledgement.

No, this was the _other_ Travis, the present-day one that Wes had met at a college party once, years and years ago. Wes highly doubted Travis would recognize him, they'd both been a little drunk and the years had changed them both. The only reason Wes knew him was because of Travis from the future. This Travis had no reason to ever think about Wes after the disastrous party.

Wes didn't pay much attention to what Travis spoke about. He was too caught up in watching the other man move, watching his hands and his face, seeing glimpses of the person he knew, someone who wouldn't exist for years to come, and he wondered how the world could be so strange.

**XXXX**

The day Wes graduated from the Academy, Alex was there, looking proud and worried and like she was about to tear up at any minute. Most people in the crowd had variations of the same face, though, so Wes just took a breath and held his head high.

Travis wasn't there. Wes looked for him, scanning the crowd just in case, but he didn't see him. For one moment, he thought, at the back of the crowd there…but the next time he looked, the only people standing there were strangers.

And with that, Wes accepted his badge and started the next phase of his life.

**XXXX**

Missing Persons wasn't the most exciting job in the world, which made Alex happy, but it was a good job nonetheless. They found people, missing kids and runaway witnesses and vaguely described criminals. When things went right, when they found who they were looking for, it was never better.

When things went wrong—and things _did_ go wrong—it was devastating. There were the cases when the person was found dead, which was hard enough. But then there were the other ones, the cases where no one was found at all, and Wes had to sit there and explain that the case had gone cold and there was nothing they could do, nothing until more evidence appeared, and he had to sit there and listen to people cry asking _why why why can't you do more?_

Wes worked really, really hard not to let those cases eat at him.

He was one of the most determined people in the department, something his mentor Fred lauded constantly. Wes would pour over case files again and again, trying to find something, _anything_ to crack the case wide open, just so he wouldn't have to face people with unanswerable questions. His coworkers thought he was just a workaholic, trying to prove himself because he used to be a lawyer. They were only partially right.

Mostly, Wes just didn't want a repeat of Anthony Padua. Another case like that and there'd be no putting himself back together. He barely clawed his way back the last time.

**XXXX**

And then there were the girls. Missing working girls who never showed up, neither dead nor alive, just _gone_. He spotted the pattern after the fourth girl was taken, and he brought it to his boss, but without a body, without a report filed, there was nothing they could do.

The fifth girl was taken, and Wes fumed. So _what_ if these were girls with no friends or family to file a report, they were still missing, they had an _obligation_ to do something here!

But they were just working girls. Without a corpse, no one cared about a few missing working girls.

A sixth girl disappeared.

Wes took the cases home, hung them on the wall in his office and threw himself into it. Even when he was working on something else, it always circled the back of his mind, his mind searching for clues or connections that _simply weren't there_.

He could feel himself slipping, falling into the same old pattern with Anthony. Obsessing over things he couldn't change. But he couldn't stop himself, and more importantly, he didn't _want_ to. There were girls going missing, and Wes knew in his gut they were dead, but if he could stop it from happening then no more girls would vanish. He had to do _something_.

Alex didn't understand. He didn't talk to her about it, couldn't. Her face twisted whenever he spoke of work; though she tried to hide it, he could always see it in her eyes. She didn't know why he had abandoned law to become a cop, and until she could, talking about work was always a subject fraught with landmines.

More than ever, Wes wished there was a way he could summon Travis from the future and demand answers. He'd _make_ Travis tell him the way to solve this case, because maybe then he could let it go.

But he couldn't, and a seventh girl vanished.

He started spending more and more time on the shooting range, trying to purge his frustration with paper targets and bullets. It didn't work. He just ended up going home smelling like gunsmoke or trying to wash it off in the locker rooms, which was a trial in and of itself.

Either way, he was pulling away from Alex and sinking into this case, and the worst part was that there was just _nothing to go on_.

**XXXX**

And then there was Paekman, calling him over, and there was a long walk down the range and a man Wes knew but didn't know standing there. Paekman smiled, and Wes stared at Travis Marks and had to swallow hard.

Paekman made introductions, and Wes's heart pounded in his throat.

"You, uh…"

_I know you_, Wes didn't say. _You've saved me, over and over again, saved me from becoming a person I couldn't stand and saved my life and I owe everything to you. I don't know you, but I know who you will become, and there's a debt here I can never repay. You don't know me, but you will, and someday you'll think I'm so important you're willing to risk time and space for me, and I still don't know why but I'm trying to live up to that every day._

He cleared his throat.

"You spoke at the Academy when I was a cadet."

Paekman grinned, leaning against the partition. "Well then, meet for real."

Wes shook hands with Travis, and there was no spark, no flash of serendipity like in the movies. But Paekman quoted, "This is gonna be the beginning of a beautiful friendship," and Wes couldn't help thinking he was absolutely right.

**XXXX**

They caught a serial killer. They got partnered together. They worked together, walked side by side together, and Wes's gun was there to keep Travis safe, to get Travis to that future point when _this_ Travis became _his_ Travis. It would happen, he told himself. It would just take time.

They were great together, the best in the department. They worked well with each other, two different methods of investigation meshing to make something fantastic. Sure, they bickered, and occasionally they rubbed each other the wrong way, because they clicked but they weren't a perfect fit.

Still, at the end of the day, there was no one Wes would rather have by his side, and he thought he could maybe understand a little why Travis would jump through time to save him. Wes would do the same, if it were the other way around.

**XXXX**

The warehouse was full of flying bullets and gunsmoke and shouting, and Wes coughed as he reloaded his weapon. He'd gotten separated from Travis in the fighting, and he was too pinned down to make it over to his partner. He had one magazine left, and unless Travis managed to call for backup before things went south, they were on their own.

This did not look good.

Coughing, Wes poked his head above his cover, aiming at the two men pinning him down with semi-automatics. He missed, cursing—so much for that sharpshooting competition—and ducked back down just as another spray of bullets came his way.

"Shit, shit, _shit_," he grumbled under his breath, trying to do the mental math. One magazine minus the bullets he'd just spent equaled simply not enough if he was going to keep missing the targets.

He inhaled, tried to slow his breathing, and prepared to try again.

Gunfire sounded from his left, surprising all three of them. One of the shooters went down with a shout, and the other man ducked. Wes's rescuer strode down the aisle, still shooting, and something in Wes uncoiled when he saw Travis.

Then Travis stepped through the gunsmoke, close enough to see the details, and Wes saw the scar and didn't know whether to be relieved or worried. _This_ was his Travis, the one from the future, saving him yet again as he always did, but that meant his partner was still off on the other side of the warehouse, and who knew what sort of situation he was in.

The detective got close enough to grab his arm and pull him out of cover. Wes tensed, bringing his gun up, but Travis just snapped, "Save your bullets, I've got enough," dragging him back down the aisle. He kept up steady cover fire, and while the shooter tried to get off a few shots, they went wide.

Then they were gone, into another aisle and moving quickly across the warehouse. Wes covered Travis's back as they moved, and it was familiar, the exact same way it always was. Except, of course, that it wasn't.

"What are you doing here?" Wes hissed, sighting down an empty aisle. "I haven't seen you in years." _Why now?_ was the unspoken question, because sure, he'd been in trouble, but he hadn't needed _intervention_. He would have been fine.

"Self-preservation, this time," Travis called with a grin, shooting someone to his left. The shadowy figure went down with a grunt of pain. "You were doing just fine. Myself, on the other hand…"

Wes quickened his step.

They made it across the warehouse in record time, Travis tossing him an extra clip when Wes ran down. And then Wes could see what 'self-preservation' meant—he'd been doing alright, pinned down by a couple of guys, but Travis had at least six men aiming for him and was clearly running low on ammo, judging by the way he was taking his time to return fire.

There wasn't much talking after that. Wes and Travis flanked the men, easily taking half of them out before they even realized they were being attacked. After that, it was much better odds, one-against-one rather than six-against-one.

The shooters went down in no time, and the smoke settled. Panting, Travis—the current one—popped up from behind the crate, looking at the downed, groaning men.

"Hot damn, Wes, nice work," he panted, giving Wes a weary thumbs up. "Glad you made it to the party."

Wes returned the gesture with a weak smile and didn't look to his left, where the future Travis should have been. He already knew the man would be gone.

**XXXX**

The time traveler found Wes outside the warehouse, after Wes had been checked over by the paramedics. He slid up beside him, mostly unnoticed because everyone was busy cordoning off the crime scene and arresting the drug dealers.

"How's he doing?" Travis asked, fiddling with his clunky watch like any second now he'd have to disappear.

Wes nodded towards an ambulance. "Minor graze on his arm, but he'll live. He'll spend the next three weeks bitching about doing paperwork, too."

"I remember it only being two," Travis said with a chuckle, leaning against the car.

"Sure you do," Wes drawled dryly, rolling his eyes. He shook his head, glancing across the way to the ambulance, where he could just barely see Travis flirting with the paramedic. "You know, I'm going to have to come up with some way to differentiate you two. I can't keep calling you both 'Travis', now can I?"

There was silence at his side, heavy and thick enough Wes actually checked to make sure his companion hadn't disappeared on him. But Travis was still there, a frown tugging his lips as he ran his thumb over his watch.

"Actually…" he finally said, but then he trailed off, frustrated like he couldn't find the words he needed.

Wes's stomach sank. "I'm not going to see you again, am I?"

Travis sighed, shaking his head, but he was smiling a little too. "You don't need me, Wes. Look at you. You're a brilliant detective now, all grown up. And you have him." He nodded at his counterpart in the ambulance.

"But he's not—" _He's not you,_ Wes bit back, because that wasn't true, was it? They were both the same person, just from different points in time. It just so happened that the one Wes knew and trusted wasn't the one he saw every day.

Travis smiled gently, clapping his shoulder. "He will be. I promise." He glanced at the ambulance again, taking a step back. "I'd better get going, before he comes over and sees me."

"Yeah." Throat tight, Wes shoved his hands in his pocket. He didn't know why he was so upset about this, it wasn't like he saw this version of Travis all that often anyway. He usually went years before seeing the guy anyway. This wasn't a big deal.

Travis's eyes softened, seeing something Wes wasn't sure he was actually conveying. Maybe Travis just had insider knowledge. "This isn't forever, Wes. You'll see me again. If not _me_, then you can watch him turn into me." His lips quirked. "That could be just as interesting."

"Right." Wes nodded, trying to school his face into something a little less revealing. "Well then. I'll see you around."

"See you around, Wes."

"Hey, Wes!"

Wes turned, facing his partner as Travis hopped down from the ambulance, and beside him he heard the faint, gentle _whomp_ of displaced air.

**XXXX**

Years passed. Wes and Travis just got better and better—at work. Highest close rate in the precinct, and when they were working together they were so in sync it was a little scary.

Outside the job, they were friends. But there were rough patches. They both had edges and they grated against each other, and sometimes the bickering turned mean and pointed.

It didn't help that things with Alex were falling further apart than ever. Wes could feel her slipping away, and it wasn't like he didn't want to try to win her back. It was just that the problems between them were too concrete to be changed with things as simple as romantic dates or couples' therapy.

Alex wanted him to stop being a cop. After being partnered with Travis, Wes knew that was the one thing he couldn't do. This was where he belonged.

He took that frustration with Alex, with his marriage, with himself, and he lashed out at Travis, because Travis was an easy target. And the thing about Travis was, he was a fighter, and he lashed right back.

Their fights turned ugly, bitter. Physical.

The first time one of them threw a punch, they were both surprised.

The second time, they got suspended for two days.

Wes wanted to stay partners with Travis, wanted to get to that future where Travis was willing to give up everything for him, because that future wouldn't be possible if Wes didn't feel the same, he _knew _that.

But he couldn't help but wonder if they would make it there, when all they ever seemed to do anymore was fight.

He couldn't help wondering if everything the future Travis was doing was worth it, when the present Travis just seemed to hate him.

**XXXX**

It wasn't honestly a surprise when Alex handed him the papers. Things had been tense for years now, and that last shootout had been the breaking point. Wes understood.

And even if they weren't in love anymore, he still loved her. So he didn't fight it. They were long past the point of redeeming their relationship, and the only way things could change was if he changed into someone he could never be again.

She wanted the past, and Wes was already looking towards the future.

He just signed the papers without a word and quietly packed up his clothes.

The first night in the hotel, he sat on the edge of the bed, and he just shook. He understood; that didn't mean this was _easy_.

"Travis?" he whispered to the air. "Are you there?"

Somehow, he expected Travis to come materializing out of thin air the way he always did, offering a comforting shoulder or wise words of encouragement and hope.

But nothing happened. The hotel room was silent, and Wes was alone.

He closed his eyes and trembled.

After a while, he got up and went down to the bar.

**XXXX**

The hotel room was dark. Wes stood in the doorway, staring at the gloom of the room, and it burned, deep down inside, where the angry teenager he'd been was long buried under the veneer of sensible responsible respectability. But he hadn't changed at all, had he? He was still the same old stupid angry kid, lashing out at people because it made him feel better.

Only it _didn't_, it didn't make him feel that much better at all. Because the people he counted on were the people who weren't there when he needed them. His father. His mother. Travis.

_Both_ Travises.

"You were the only one," he murmured, low and angry as he stepped into the empty room. "I was fifteen, and you showed up in my hospital room. And ever since then you were the _only one_ who was _always _there when I needed you. No matter what. My parents left me, my friends abandoned me. But _you_. I could always count on you to be there. To save me."

He spun in the center of the room, glaring at the corners like the time traveler would step out of the shadows to catch him. "No matter what stupid shit I did, you were always there. When I got in over my head, you came and saved me. _Every time_. All these years, and you were the _only one_ I could ever count on."

The room continued to be empty, and it just made his anger burn hotter.

"So where the hell are you _now_, Travis Marks?" he shouted, heedless of the neighbors to either side. "Where are you _now_, when I need you? I _need you_, dammit, so why aren't you here? You're _always here!_"

The shadows stayed quiet, and no one appeared in his room. He was alone.

Chuckling weakly, he sank onto the couch, the anger burning but not hot enough to overcome the exhaustion. He dropped his head back, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn't cry.

_You don't need me_, Travis had said, back at that warehouse so many years ago. _You have him_. But he was wrong, because Wes _didn't_ have Travis, not anymore. They were falling apart so quickly, and it was only a matter of time before Travis and Wes split the way Wes and Alex did.

Only a matter of time before Wes was all alone, and _then_ where would he be? Because it seemed like even his guardian angel had abandoned him.

He opened his eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling. "Where are you?" he whispered to the still air, the words barely carrying through the room. "I need you. Why aren't you here?"

There was no answer, and no matter how long he waited, the familiar _whomp_ of displaced air never came.

He was all alone.

**XXXX**

Wes withdrew. If he was going to lose Travis anyway, he wanted to be as distant from the blast as possible so it didn't hurt as much. So he withdrew, and they merely coasted along, working together but not doing much else. They still got in fights, still got in trouble all the time, but Wes didn't let it affect him anymore. He wouldn't allow it to affect him anymore.

Falling back into old patterns and old routines, because that was what he was good at. It worked in the past, it would do the same now.

Paekman did his best to heal the rift between them, but he was gone so often with SIS that he wasn't much good. And when he _was_ around, he was tense and edgy. Clearly something was on his mind, but he wouldn't talk about it.

The wheels spun. The clock ticked on.

Things didn't get any better.

**XXXX**

And then Paekman died, shot in the back in a parking lot, and Wes stood over his friend's body and drowned. If he'd done something sooner, noticed something, pushed for a little more information, then this wouldn't have…

It was Anthony all over again, a crippling mistake on his part that cost someone his life.

The only difference was, this time, Travis felt the same way.

That wasn't enough. They couldn't support each other in this when they could barely talk without shouting anymore.

**XXXX**

"Hey, Wes."

Wes paused, hand on the doorknob, chest clenching at the familiar voice. It took a second before he could convince himself to release the door, and when he did, his hand was shaking.

"Travis," he murmured, stepping into the room. Travis sat on edge of the couch, watching him, the low light glinting off the scar on his forehead. The time traveler, then. Wes wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.

"Figured you could use someone to talk to," Travis said, rising to his feet. "I remember what this was—"

Wes punched him in the face.

Travis staggered back, clutching his dripping nose. "The hell?"

"Why are you _here?_" Wes hissed, venom in the words. The anger was back, a flickering inferno in his chest and made him reckless and stupid and he just wanted to _hurt _something. "Right now, _why are you here?" _

"Begause!" Travis mumbled through his dripping nose, fumbling for a tissue or ten. "Your vriend died! _Our _vriend died! I vigured you bight lige zomeone do dalk do!"

Wes trembled, hands clenched at his sides, and part of him wanted to take Travis up on that. Wanted to cry and weep and demand to know why things turned out like this.

But this was Anthony all over again. Travis _could_ have saved him, but he didn't.

Could have saved Paekman, but he didn't.

And Wes really didn't even want to look at Travis right now.

"Get out of here," he snarled, stalking forward. "Just get the hell out of here, right now."

Travis stared at him, eyes wide over the crumpled, bloody tissues under his nose. Wes stalked another step forward, fists twitching, ready to throw another punch because maybe this time it would work, maybe this time it would bleed some of the pain from his heart.

With a sigh, Travis's face shifted, and he shook his head. "Vine. You win." And, with no more than that, he brought his wrist up and pressed the button, vanishing right before Wes's eyes.

Wes closed his eyes, took a breath. Counted to ten like that would help. Slowly, ever so slowly, his hands relaxed. If there was no one to punch, then Wes wasn't about to start hitting walls. That was stupid.

He tried not to feel abandoned that Travis left without a fight.

"No, you know what? I'm not going to leave."

Wes whirled, going stiff as a bowstring, and found Travis on the other side of the room. Different shirt, no blood or swelling on his nose, but he was angry, bristling the way he did when he was preparing for a fight.

"You don't get to do that, Wes, not today. I'm here to _help_ you, dammit, so you don't sink into this and lose yourself, and you don't get to push me away."

"Help? You want to _help_?" Wes gnashed his teeth together, pacing in front of the couch. Travis was keeping his distance between them, which was good, if he didn't want to be punched in the face again.

"If you want to _help_," Wes spat, "then go back and _fix_ this! Save Paekman."

"You think I don't want to save him?" Travis growled, his own anger rising up, because he was like Wes. It was all buried under charm and smiles, but it was always there, lurking beneath the surface, and they were both so good at bringing it out in each other. "You think the second thing I did when I got this stupid watch wasn't to go and save my friend? I _went_ there, Wes, and it _doesn't work!_"

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I lose you!"

Wes recoiled, staring at him. Travis shook, chest heaving, and the glare on his face could cut diamonds. He made a clear effort to gather himself, running his hands over his face and letting out a long, slow breath. When he spoke, his voice was taut, trembling, right on the verge of shattering altogether.

"I went back there," Travis said slowly, jaw tight. "And I saved Paekman. I _did_. And you know what happened? We got them. Crowl, his guys, we got them all. And Paekman was alive. But you know what it didn't do?" Before Wes could answer, Travis said, "It didn't save _us_."

Something in Wes's chest clenched painfully tight, and he didn't move a muscle.

Travis started pacing, and there was a familiar twist to his mouth that Wes recognized so much lately, the one that said he'd been pushed a little too far and was doing his very best not to break down. "Paekman was alive, but that wasn't enough to help us, keep us from tearing each other apart. Three months later, you transferred out. Went to the FBI. And I figured okay, this is fine, at least Paekman is still alive. You're both still alive, that's enough."

"But it wasn't," Wes said slowly. _Clearly_ it wasn't, or else Paekman would be alive right now.

"No." Travis shook his head. "No it wasn't. Because you know what happened? You got shot. Halfway across the country, some rookie agent watching your back, you got shot and _died_. And I had to make a choice. I could have Paekman, or I could have you, but I couldn't have both. And what you don't seem to get, Wes, is that when it comes to a choice, I willalways pick you. _Every time_."

The anger still thrummed, but muted now, below the surface, and when Wes looked at his feet and spoke, there was hardly any fire in his words at all. "I'm not worth that much, Travis."

"Yes, you are, Wes," Travis murmured, hardly more than a whisper. "You always have been."

Wes's eyes welled, and he slowly sank onto the chair behind him.

Travis settled across from him, his own anger draining away now that the fight had left Wes. "That's just the way it works, Wes. For everything to turn out the way it needs to, some people have to die. And I wish with everything I have that it was different, but it's _not_. I had to go and keep myself from saving my best friend, and I have to live with that." He stared at Wes, eyes bright with tears and something else.

Wes met his stare head-on, refusing to name the emotion in Travis's eyes. Refused to admit that it resonated with something deep in his chest, because that way led to madness.

"Was it worth it?" he whispered. "Letting Paekman die. Will it be worth it?"

"Yes," Travis promised, "Oh god, Wes, _yes_. I swear, it's all worth it."

"Okay."

That would have to be enough.

**XXXX**

Wes clung to Travis's words, to _it will be worth it_ because right now he didn't have anything else to hang onto. Alex was gone and Paekman was gone and Travis just got farther and farther away every day, but Wes still had the future. He still had a man who would risk breaking time and space to save him, and he had the promise that it would turn out that way in the end. He just had to hang on and they'd get there.

**XXXX**

And then he pulled his gun, and everything fell apart once more.

**XXXX**

For a long time, Wes just sat there, hands folded neatly in his lap. He stared at the wall and he simply breathed, because he felt much too fragile and he was afraid the slightest movement would shatter him completely. He didn't even have his anger to sustain him, because there _was_ no anger. There hadn't been earlier in the day, and there wasn't any now. There was just a cold, hollow void in his chest because he'd ripped everything out and thrown it on the ground.

This wasn't Anthony, or Paekman. He did this to _himself_, and he only had himself to blame.

He wasn't doing anything, so he heard the gentle _whomp _as Travis arrived. And still, he merely sat and waited.

There was a long pause before Travis came to the bedroom, standing in the doorway. Wes could feel his gaze on him, assessing and sharp, but Travis's tone was light when he said, "Kind of depressing, sitting here in the dark, ain't it?"

For the first time all night, Wes sighed, shoulders dropping ever so slightly. "It's all over now, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't say that." The bed dipped slightly as Travis sat, close enough to touch. Wes could feel his warmth against his skin, and he leaned in a little, trying to soak it up. He just felt so cold, numb.

"I pulled my gun," he whispered. "I've been suspended. There's going to be an inquiry. Even if I get my job back, I doubt they'll let us be partners. And Crowl—" Here his throat tightened, and Wes swallowed hard, voice cracking. "Crowl got away with everything. So tell me, how is not all over, I'd really like to know."

"Spoilers," Travis said, inching closer and closer, his arm brushing Wes's like he knew Wes needed the comfort his words couldn't give. "I'd tell ya, but then I'd have to kill ya, and that would make everything kind of moot at this point." He reached out, wrapping one arm around Wes's shoulders and pulling him close. "But I _promise_, Wes, this isn't the end, we're going to—"

Wes turned and pressed their lips together.

Travis stiffened. Whatever future advice he was getting on where to go and why must have left this part out. But it was the end of the world (well, the end of Wes's world, at least) and he figured why not go out on a bang. So he kissed him, the man he'd been wanting for years because the one he needed wasn't at his side.

And Travis kissed back, softening and leaning in, his hands coming up to cup the sides of Wes's head. He let Wes lead the kiss, let Wes draw whatever comfort he needed from it. Which wasn't to say he didn't participate—he just didn't dominate.

Wes pulled away feeling tremulous and uncertain and not much better than before.

"Can we?" he mumbled, hands coming up to tug on the lapels of Travis's jacket.

"Wes," Travis whispered, voice rough and wrecked. His fingers wrapped around Wes's, stopping his movement, and he pressed their foreheads together, breathing shakily. "Oh, Wes, we can't. I would, if I thought it would make a difference, but we can't."

"Why not?" Wes wanted it, wanted the closeness and the touch and warmth that came with sex, and it was _Travis_, so there was no problem. He was fine with it so long as he was with Travis.

But Travis just sighed and closed his eyes. "Because it's not _us_. You're not my Wes. And I'm not your Travis. We'll get there, but not yet."

"Get there?" Wes pulled away, wishing he was getting angry but he _wasn't_, there was just a void inside him, an empty ache because it looked like Alex had been right, being a cop didn't lead to anything better, it just led to pain and tears and heartache. "How are we going to _get there_? I've been _suspended. _You—he _hates_ me. And I—"

_I love you._

The realization hit him like a punch in the mouth, but it wasn't exactly a _surprise_. Not really, not once he thought about it. It had always been there, for years and years, because Travis was the one person who'd seen him at his lowest and _still_ came back. Travis was the one person Wes trusted implicitly, in any variation, and how could he not love someone if he was willing to bare his heart and soul to them?

And it only grew when he met the present-day Travis. Because here was an actual, real person Wes interacted with on a daily basis, and Wes cared about him to the ends of the earth and knew Travis would watch his back, and the feeling just grew and grew until it didn't matter, it was just _Travis_, his partner and his friend and his everything.

But things fell apart a long time ago, and now…now it was over. They were never going to _get there_, so who cared if they were in the same time stream or not? Just let him have this one night, it was all he was ever going to _get_.

"Wes." Warm hands gripped the side of his head, turning him so he was staring right into bright, bright blue eyes. "Wes," and Travis said his name like he'd been calling him for a while, trying to draw him out of his head.

(That was always his problem—thinking too much, getting too obsessed, too sucked in, because he looked at a problem and saw how things would end up and he got stuck, afraid to move forward because what if he chose _wrong?_)

"Wes. It's going to be okay." Nothing but sincerity in Travis's voice, nothing but intent in his eyes. "I _promise _you, everything is going to be okay. I _swear_. We're going to get there. You just need to have a little faith."

"But it's over…" Wes _wanted_ to believe Travis, more than anything. But he pulled his gun on his partner in a room full of cops. How was he supposed to come back from that?

"It's _not _over." Travis gave him a crooked smile. "Time traveler, remember? I have the inside scoop." Slowly, he released Wes, sitting back. He ran a hand through his hair, staring at the watch on his wrist, before finally he sighed.

"Okay, look. I probably shouldn't be telling you this. But I think it's probably important. So here's the thing: the captain's going to call you in. You probably think he's about to fire you, but he won't. He's going to give you a choice. And it's gonna sound like the craziest thing in the world, and your first reaction is to scoff and walk out. But what you need to do, Wes, okay, what you need to do is _not_ follow your first reaction. Actually think about your choices. And then you need to say yes."

"To what?"

"Nice try. Spoilers." Travis gave him a quicksilver flash of a grin. "Say yes to the one thing that will keep us together. That's all you have to do. Say yes."

Wes laced his fingers together. "If my first reaction is going to be walking away, then that's your—that's Travis's first reaction too. What's to stop him from leaving?"

"Wes," Travis said, in a patient, _You're not thinking straight so I forgive you but you're being really dumb right now_ voice, "do you trust your partner?"

Wes blinked. "I..."

He thought about Travis, _his _Travis, the one he'd spent years with, watching his back and having his back watched in turn. Who he'd shared jokes and laughter and long nights with, back before things went sour. Who was a reckless idiot who couldn't stay serious for more than a minute and who'd slept through half the women in the department, but who would always be there when Wes needed him.

Travis, who'd looked at Wes with his gun out, and wasn't angry, wasn't upset. Was just sad and lost and broken the way Wes felt, and Wes had known that if nothing else, he'd saved Travis from himself, and he could walk away with his head held high because of that.

He'd started trusting Travis because of the time traveler, because he'd known the man from the future and brought that into the relationship. But it had been _years_, and now Wes trusted _Travis_, more than anyone else in the world. Even when they were at their worst, he trusted Travis.

Did he trust Travis?

"Of course I do."

Travis smiled, hands on Wes's shoulders like a blessing. "Then what more do you need? He'll make the right choice, with or without my nudge, because if it comes down to a choice of a world with you, or one without, he'll choose you." He chuckled wryly. "He is me, after all."

Wes felt some of the cold space in his chest shrink a little at that. Just enough that he didn't feel so hollowed out anymore.

"The only reason I'm here," Travis said, pulling away slowly, "is because you're alone. He's not. And there was no reason for you to be alone right now. But you'll be okay, Wes. You both will. Like I keep saying. You'll get there, it just takes time."

The corner of Wes's mouth quirked at the irony, and he merely nodded.

Letting out a breath, the time traveler stepped back, hand going to the watch on his wrist. "Are you going to be alright now? Because _technically_ I have all the time in the world, but I do have things to do, so…"

"I'll be okay." Wes stood, legs tingling numbly after so many hours sitting, but he just smiled bravely. "It's fine. I'll just…wait for my choice."

"Good." Travis nodded, finger hovering over the red button. "That's great." He smiled, gentle and loving and half a dozen things Wes wasn't sure he'd earned yet. (But he would. He would fight tooth and nail to be worthy of those emotions on Travis's face.)

"See you around, Wes."

"Travis." The other male paused, finger on the button. "What was the first thing?"

"Huh?"

"The first thing. After…after Paekman, you said the second thing you did was try to save him." Wes swallowed hard, shifting in nervous anticipation of the answer to the question he was about to ask. "What was the first thing?"

But Travis just laughed, face lighting up as he stared at Wes. "Isn't it obvious? I did the only thing I could. The only thing that mattered."

"Wes, I saved _you_."

**XXXX**

Captain Sutton called them both in, and Wes stood with his hands behind his back, not looking at Travis. Travis didn't look his way either.

And the captain gave them a choice.

It was ridiculous. It was completely insane, it would never work. _Couples' counseling?_ Seriously?

Wes bit down the scoff that wanted to fly out of his mouth and planted his feet and didn't walk out the door. At his side, Travis twitched like he too wanted to leave, but he didn't.

Sutton folded his hands on the table, staring at them both. "Now, you don't have to decide right now. I can give you a day or two, but you _do_ have to make a choice. Things can't keep going as they are."

Wes clenched his hands behind his back, chancing a glance at Travis from the corner of his eye. He thought about _we'll get there_ and _I saved you_ and everything they could have in the future.

He thought about the past, all the years they'd spent together.

Then he thought about the future.

It was no choice at all. If it came down to a world with Travis, or a world without him… Well, he and Travis weren't so different in that regard.

"I'll do it."

He waited, heart thudding painfully, and he didn't quite breathe until he heard Travis say it too.

**XXXX**

**Epilogue: The Beginning**

His head aches.

"Dr. Defoe was a PhD doctor," Wilcox says, voice carrying over the piles of junk. He's only ten feet away, but with the scrap and parts scattered in the room, it might as well be miles. "That makes him more of a scientist," Wilcox continues, and something clatters to the ground.

Travis rubs his aching head and doesn't bother to respond. He's not sure if his head hurts from the lights gleaming off the piles of metal, or if it's just a migraine from his injury. He's been having them a lot lately.

Maybe he's just being affected by the cold, hollow hole in his chest.

"And I think we can guarantee that he was pretty insane," Wilcox says, sounding farther away than before. He's moving through the room, looking for evidence like Travis should be doing. "I mean, killing three people and putting himself in a coma, that's pretty crazy."

"Pretty crazy, yeah," Travis says absently, picking his way over a heap of junk. _Not 'junk',_ he reminds himself sarcastically, remembering Dr. Defoe's words right before he shot himself and put himself in said coma. _Inventions._ _In his laboratory._

If he's more focused, he'd be able to follow that train of thought to its logical conclusion. But he isn't, so he doesn't.

"And this is his _lab,_" Wilcox says, undisguised glee in his voice. "Which means we're in a mad scientist's laboratory!" He lets out a passable rendition of a mad cackle.

A spike of pain shoots through Travis's head, and he nearly trips over a piece of—looks like a car bumper. He pauses, takes a deep breath, and rubs his temples.

"Hey, let's try to maintain some professionalism, alright?" he calls, resuming his trek through the rubbish-strewn room.

There's silence on the other side of the junk. Travis can almost hear the conversation in reverse. He'd make the mad scientist crack (he would do a much better cackle than Wilcox, for sure) and Wes would roll his eyes and protest that they need to be professional, and Travis would laugh and say he's _always_ professional, baby, and Wes would grumble and do that thing where he tries to be annoyed but he's really secretly amused—

Travis cuts those thoughts off with a muttered curse, rubbing the ache in his chest and shaking his head. No use thinking things like that, not now, while he's on the job. Has to keep a level head while he's working.

Wilcox isn't Travis, and he isn't Wes (oh god he isn't Wes), so all he says is a sullen, "Yes, sir."

Travis swallows and ducks under a jutting iron rod, finding himself in a relatively clear workspace. There's a table with papers laid out, and bits and bobs of metal and electronics, but nothing like the hodge-podge mess elsewhere. This looks promising. Travis steps closer.

_Time_.

That's the word that jumps out at Travis, because it's everywhere. On every piece of paper, written in the margins, in neat handwriting and messy, scrawled in red and green and black and blue ink. _Time. Time. Time. Time._

Travis shuffles through the papers, looking for clues, some hint of something to show what was going on in Defoe's brain, because maybe this obsession is what led him to snapping and killing two women and a young man—

His hand freezes, and his heart stutters in his chest.

_Time travel._

Travis stares at the paper in his hand, and his hand shakes.

There's a diagram of a watch on the paper, and he scans the tabletop for a corresponding device. He's expecting nothing, but he's not entirely surprised when he finds it, half-buried under a sheaf of notebook paper.

He holds the bulky, clunky watch in his hand, stares at the dials and knobs, and thinks, _Impossible_.

There's no such thing as time travel. No such thing.

But if it were true…

_Wes_, he thinks, and his chest aches and his head aches.

He's not entirely conscious of what he's doing, not exactly. He straps the watch to his wrist and scans the diagram for a minute, working it out.

Nothing's going to happen, of course. It's ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. There's no such thing as time travel.

He sets the watch and pushes the button on the side.

The world ripples around him.

He blinks, and he's standing in the laboratory, in the same spot he'd been before. He feels an unexpected sense of disappointment. Of course it didn't work. _Of course_. What was he expecting, a miracle from a stupid science fiction story?

There's no such thing as time tra—

A door opens, and Wilcox's voice shines loud and bright. "Wow, this is a _mess_. I guess Dr. Defoe wasn't much of a housekeeper," and Travis goes still, waiting, and a second later…

It's _his_ voice. _His own voice_ saying dryly, "Yeah, well, I'm sure murder and insanity takes up a lot of mental processes," and Travis fumbles with the watch, jamming the red button with trembling hands, and the world ripples around him again.

He's back in the same place, with Wilcox across the room shuffling through the junk, back in the present because that's what the red button does, it take the watch wearer back one jump, according to the papers on the desk.

_Wes_, he thinks, twisting the dials to a date and time he knows so well. _Wes_, and _It works, it works, it's possible, I can save him_, and he doesn't care, he _doesn't care_ about paradoxes or the space-time continuum because it's Wes and he's always known he'd do anything for Wes.

He pushes the button. The world ripples.

He's standing in the street, and he can see Wes frowning, bending down to peer under a parked car, can see himself (his past self) on the other side of the car, back turned, but Travis is already running, already moving before he can even shout a warning.

He sees Wes's eyes widen, watches him spring up with a strangled shout on his lips, and then he's there, barreling into Wes's body and dragging him away from the car seconds before the bomb explodes.

(He still wakes to the pain, six months later, dreaming of fire scorching across his back and the throw of the blast tossing him into another parked car, remembers the blackness as his forehead slammed into unforgiving metal. Remembers waking up with a scar on his forehead that will never heal and an empty space in his chest when they tell him his partner died in the blast. Nightmares centered in reality.)

But that's all beforeafterlater.

_Now_, now he curls around Wes as the fire ravages the car, and he shakes, and _he doesn't care_, so long as Wes isn't dead, so long as Wes doesn't die Travis _doesn't give a flying fuck_ what happens.

"Travis?" a dazed voice says beneath him. Travis clenches his eyes shut, almost afraid to believe it, he's spent the last six months imagining how things could be different and maybe this is just his mind playing tricks on him—

Hands push gently at his chest, and Wes's voice is bemused but not annoyed. "Travis, you have to let me up."

Slowly, he pulls away, far enough from the fire that he feels safe not moving them just yet. He stares down at Wes, and Wes looks back, still looking confused but with an amused quirk to his lips, and he pushes at Travis again. "Travis, I need to get up."

Then Wes's gaze clears, just a little, his eyes roam Travis's face, taking in the brand new scar that's still shiny and pink and raw. Wes's eyes immediately dart to Travis's wrist, and Travis has no idea why Wes instantly made that connection, or why Wes's face softens.

"I'm okay," Wes says, cupping Travis's face with his hands, and the warmth in his eyes is something Travis has never seen before.

Except he _has_, he knows, he saw it a lot, before Wes died, saw it almost every day but Travis, stupid, commitment-phobic Travis pretended not to see it, because he was scared of losing Wes if he admitted anything, only he _did_ lose Wes and now Wes is here, Wes is here and a thousand words bubble on Travis's lips, all the things he wanted to say but didn't, and he—

The kiss is inelegant and desperate and needy, and Wes makes a startled sound when their lips crash together. Travis doesn't care. He's spent six months mourning over his partner, and now Wes is here and he's _looking at him_ _like that_, and Travis doesn't care if he's gone insane or ripped a hole in time, he just knows that Wes is here and that's enough. That's always been enough.

Wes is the one who pulls away. Travis barely resists the urge to clutch him tighter and kiss him again.

"I'm okay," Wes repeats, voice strong and sure. He's gentle but unyielding as he sits up, pushing Travis up with him. "You know I'm okay," he says, smile lingering at his mouth. "You always make sure I am."

"I—" Travis starts, but he's cut off by the sound of sirens, and Wes turns to look at the fiery inferno.

"You should go," Wes says, climbing gingerly to his feet. He holds his ribs like they hurt, and Travis feels a trickle of guilt, and it's so much better than the cold hollow ache that's been his constant companion since the blast. "Better get out of here before anyone wants to question you." He shoots a sunny, amused smile at Travis and nods his head at the other side of the care, where past-Travis is unconscious in the street. "I'll go take care of him. I'll see you around."

His eyes glitter with an inside joke Travis doesn't understand, and he watches Wes limp around the burning car, flinching away from snapping sparks.

Travis stares until Wes is out of sight, then presses the red button on the watch.

The world ripples, and he's back in the lab, pain crawling up his spine like it happened just moments ago. But that's impossible, the accident was six months ago and Wes was—

"—_professionalism_, Travis," Wes's voice is saying, and Travis's heart stops. "I mean, I know it's hard, considering you're actually twelve years old, but _really_."

His partner walks around a pile of rubbish, pausing when he sees Travis standing there. He puts his blue-gloved hands on his hips and scowls, "You just _had_ to make the mad scientist crack, didn't you?"

Travis stares.

And stares.

And stares.

Wes's scowl morphs into worry. "Travis?" He takes a step forward, the space between his eyebrows furrowing.

"Wes," he groans, voice cracking, and Wes is there in a heartbeat, leaping over five feet of junk with that stupid monkey agility of his. He takes in the scattered papers on the table, the watch on Travis's wrist, the scar on his head. Comprehension dawns, and Wes's mouth opens in a small, round 'O'.

(Travis remembers kissing that mouth just a few minutes ago. Or was it six months ago? He doesn't know. He doesn't understand. It felt so real. Was it real? Is any of this real?)

"Travis," Wes says, sounding far away. Travis can see his lips moving, but it's like there's water rushing in his ears. All he can focus on are Wes's blue, blue eyes and his bright pink lips.

"Where's Wilcox?" he asks, sounding far away, and he sees Wes's face flicker with confusion before realization dawns. Wes's hands move from his arms to his face, turning Travis's head so they're eye to eye.

"Travis, I'm here, I'm right here, whatever you did, you changed it, I'm not going anywhere. Travis, _look_ at me, I need you to look at me, okay—"

Travis cuts off Wes's words with a kiss, desperate and pleading and tasting like salt (oh _fuck_ he's crying, he's actually crying), and he prays to god he's not losing his mind because he doesn't think he can handle it if this isn't real.

They're both panting when they pull away, but Travis doesn't let them get too far apart. He clutches at Wes and brings their foreheads together. He wants to close his eyes against his tears and all the emotions roiling inside his chest, but if he does, he won't see Wes—he has an irrational fear that if he looks away from Wes right now, Wes will fade into mist and this will all be a dream.

"You were _gone_," Travis whispers, heartbreak in every word. Wes was gone and Travis was empty and _oh_, he feels stupid, how could it have taken so damn long to realize how much he _needed_ the infuriating man in front of him? Why did it have to take Wes's death and goddamn fucking impossible _time travel_ to realize he actually, maybe, sort of loved the man?

Wes looks at him with eyes that are way too understanding and says reassuringly, "I'm not gone now." He smiles softly, using a thumb to wipe at the tears on Travis's cheek (wow, how much does that suck, to be openly crying in front of his not-so-dead partner?)

Then Wes chuckles.

Travis pulls back, not far, just far enough to convey his affront. "What? What's so funny?" If Wes is seriously laughing at his tears Travis may have to reconsider this whole in-love-with-the-man thing.

Wes waves a hand dismissively. "No, it's not…" He steps back (Travis fights the completely rational urge to grab him and never let go) and smiles with that I-know-something-you-don't look in his eyes. "You once said I was, and I quote, 'I-would-rewrite-time important'. I just…never thought you meant it _literally_."

Travis sniffles and rubs his cheek with his sleeve. "I never said that."

"You did. Or, I guess, you will." Wes's face twists a little. "Time travel tenses are hard."

That, at least, makes Travis laugh. It's a watery, weak laugh with too many tears in it, but it's better than outright sobbing. He scrubs his face dry and takes a breath. "Sounds like you have quite a story."

Wes gives Travis a _You're calling me out on the same bullshit you pull?_ eyebrow and waves a hand, somehow managing to encompass the time traveling watch, the tears no longer on Travis's cheeks, and their previous kiss in one motion. "So do you."

"How 'bout you tell me all about it?"

Wes pulls back, just a little, studying Travis's face. Travis tries not to let too much of his current vulnerability show. He doesn't think he manages so well, what with the tears and everything.

"Okay," is all Wes says, a thousand years of understanding in that one word. "We'll finish up here, and then we can go get dinner and talk."

"Yeah." Travis wipes his face with his sleeve, trying to garner a modicum of self-control. "Dinner like dinner, or dinner like a date?" he asks, waving a hand to vaguely indicate all the kissing they'd just been doing.

The corner of Wes's mouth quirks. "Let's start with dinner and go from there, what do you say?"

Travis looks at the watch on his wrist. (He has a feeling he's going to have to steal it from the lab. Luckily, it's a _time travel_ device. Even if Dr. Defoe wakes up, no one will believe he actually made it.) Then he looks at his partner. His right-there, not-currently-dead, possibly-something-more-than-just-friends partner.

He smiles.

"Yeah. That sounds good."

And it does. As long as Wes is there, nothing could be better.

**OOOO**

**The quote at the beginning of the fic was found through Google. I searched for a source, but I got a lot of different results and the only two that were the same were 'Unknown'. If anyone recognizes where it came from, let me know and I'll fix it. Otherwise, I think I'll stick with 'Unknown'.**

**I'm pretty happy with how this turned out. Not quite 100%, but well enough I'm okay with posting it. I've tweaked and fiddled and shuffled things around, and I'm ready to release it into the world, so here you go, have at it.**

**Comments, reviews, and constructive criticism are always welcome. Let me know what you thought!**

**Until next time~!**


End file.
